Beyond the Garden
by Your Favorite Alice
Summary: London, 1897. Cain's plans for revenge go hideously astray when he is captured by Alexis. Relying on his wits and desperate to save Riff from an impeding death, he reluctantly enlists the help of Jezabel. Torn between terror and death, Cain must make a decision about both of them—and just how far blood ties go.
1. Chapter 1

**Notes:** This is rated primarily for the violent content. if you would like to read this, but want to skip the main violent/body horror part, read 7/8 of the way down until "Averting his eyes, Jezabel turns to the side, away from me. " and continue at "My world fades..."

I won't think less of you for doing what's best for your well-being. Promise.

* * *

I used to imagine my heart as a tin of pebbles. Banging away at nothing, good for nothing. It was only fitting that an eternal boy like me would never have a working heart. ( _Puer aeternus_ , I heard Dr. Zenopia call me a lifetime ago, in another body.) Not capable of true love, not capable of bravery nor devotion. An imp in human skin.

I'm ashamed now, as I climb the stairs to the Cardmaster's throne room. Cain follows me, less a lamb to the slaughter than a boy desperately trying to be man, and those eyes! His eyes remind me of the rock I kicked all along the filth-strewn road when mother took me to see the circus. I was only thirteen, and I wandered around the performers, gasping at the sword-swallowers and the lion tamers, momentarily forgetting my grubbiness and sullen disposition. And then I saw a man in a smart uniform hand mother some notes, and I knew then, knew that I was sold like those men overseas, clad in chains and lashings. I used to comfort myself with the knowledge that I could no longer recall her face, but now it merely saddens me. She must have been my age now, with too many children and too few options.

I'm no saint; I won't be hanging around with the likes of Peter, Paul, or Michael. If I can save him, I'll banish the nagging in my chest. _It's a repayment_ , I lie to myself. _A life for a life._ Turns out I don't believe lies as easily as he does. Pity, that.

 _He_ 's there. The Lord of Flies himself. Sitting on the throne like the exiled king he imagines himself to be.

I curse my ill-timed feelings of humanity, as we are immediately surrounded. I struggle and land a few blows on a man I remember (Mortimer, the Seven of Swords, a hateful man who beat me once when intoxicated). Cain's bullet goes through Edith's eye almost silently (the Lovers, drowned her husband in his sleep with a bowl of water), and she scrabbles uselessly at the hole in her face as she collapses. Some blows to my back, and I stumble forwards. Forcing me to kneel on the floor, the Moon holds her dagger to my throat, her other hand gripping my hair and a boot on my back. A quick glance reveals that two men have Cain, who's struggling quite uselessly now.

Head tilted, the Cardmaster flickers a careless glance at us. "Cain." His lips curl into a smirk. "Has my wayward son come home?"

The Cardmaster raises himself off the throne and draws closer to him. He strokes the curve of his son's face, only the false smile breaking the illusion of a loving father.

"I cannot let you plunge this city into darkness, Father." Self-assured determination gives way to fear on Cain's face, as the Cardmaster begins to run his thumb along the boy's porcelain lips, studying him intently for any signs of tears, and not for the first time, I wonder if I was wrong to wait this long to return, to intervene in this monster's games.

"Hush, _darling_ boy." Every word, a mocking knife. "I'll send you to the nursery if you don't behave."

"I'm not your toy!" Anger contorts Cain's features.

The Cardmaster gives him a long smirk before striking him across the face. "You are. Only fools resist their fate." He turns his attention towards me now. When he's close enough that I see the deep green of his eyes, I spit directly into that pale face. Terribly lower-class of me, but his momentary surprise is worth the blow.

He grips my face roughly to get a better examination of my features, moving it to study all the angles. The false skin peels straight off to his shock, and something akin to realization dawns on his hateful face. His hand glides to my hairline and taps at my surgery scar. He then dismissively lets go, kicking the scrape of skin with his boot. He meets my glare with an arrogant half-smile.

I cannot keep myself from shaking.

Cain stares at me as if I were a phantom. "Lord Gladstone?" His nose wrinkles in disgust, and I shake my head.

"Send in Death immediately," Alexis demands lazily, returning to his throne. "My sons really do cause me nothing but trouble."

With the smile of a cat who caught the canary, the World leaves, playing with her thick black gloves in anticipation. In the terrible space left behind, which seems loosened from the natural flow of time, the Cardmaster orders Cain and I bound.

* * *

The kid arrives, a bloody specter, annoyance written on his face. "Cardmaster?" His tone is sullen, but I cannot stop looking at him, trying to piece together the details of his life after I took my leave. Is he thinner, or is my memory unreliable? How much of that blood belongs to someone else? His boredom evaporates when he spots Cain, bound to a chair, and his mouth opens, full of unasked questions.

The Cardmaster motions towards me. "Does this man look familiar?"

Jezabel looks at me, bored. "No. He's a vagrant of some sort." (Of course, Cain's the one he wants, not me).

"You're certain?" A subtle smile.

Walking now towards me, Jezabel gives me a searching look, while I pray that he fails to recognize me. The penalty for leaving Delilah is death, and I can't die yet. Not again. That damnable scar on my new head tells me I won't be so lucky. His face up-close reveals new lines around his eyes, branching out like capillaries, and the sight pains me. I want nothing more than to touch that hair, although I'm quite certain it would flutter out of my grasp like moonlight. Cold against my skin, his hand repeats the path that his father's did. His eyes widen; and fear and confusion and something I can't bring myself to name are written so clearly that he may well have gasped.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the Cardmaster advance towards us. Jezabel searches my face, unaware, "why?" frozen on his lips. That vulnerable look he gives me sends a knife into my heart.

Alexis jerks him away from me, and gripping his wrist, forces him towards him.

"Everyone, leave. Moon, remain here." The smile has vanished. "Death and I need to have a talk."

He waits until the last member has left, and I can barely hear over the sound of blood coursing through my veins, louder than waves at the seashore. "The better question," he hisses, "is _why_. Why you felt that my orders were to be disobeyed."

Jezabel is at a loss for words. The Cardmaster shakes him roughly for a response, before striking him across the face.

"Did you not think you would be found out? Answer me!" The Castmaster strikes him again with so much force that Jezabel crumples to the floor. Red fills the cracks in the floor; I uselessly struggle against the cold of the handcuffs binding me to the chair. Can't even see if the kid's still breathing. Cain keeps intently studying me, eyes narrowed and darting between his father and me. Tries to say something, but the sight of the Cardmaster turning to face us renders him wordless.

"Well, since Jezabel decided to take a rest," the Cardmaster pauses, before ripping loose my gag. "Why don't you tell me why you came back?"

Shock dawns on Cain's face. "You're the boy? The little boy?"

"Yes," I sheepishly admit.

The Cardmaster stares at both of us, slightly disheveled. A few strands of black hair trail in front of his glasses, which he quickly sweeps away. "Why," he repeats haughtily.

"You'd never understand." I spit into his hateful face again. If I'm going to die again, I'm not going to make it easy for that bastard. My anger quickly dissipates when Jezabel stirs.

"Love?" The Cardmaster has a hideous grin on his face now. "Love. Love has never existed for your type. Has that body made you into a sodomite like its late owner?"

I cannot answer that; quite frankly, it was a fear of mine that I would take on Cassandra's _characteristics,_ as his final parting gift.

Bored, Alexis stares at me, before ordering the Moon to fetch something I cannot quite hear. Quite doubtful that it's the key to my locks. He returns to Jezabel, who by now has clasped a hand to his bloody head. "Up." Yanking Jezabel to his feet, he leads him back to us, still gripping him tightly by his arm; Jezabel inaudibly protests this treatment to no success. The Moon has returned, bearing a surgical tray. My heart flutters from fear, and my vision clouds.

" _Darling_ Jezabel, I think you are familiar with Gottlieb Burckhardt's work in curing insanity, are you not?"

Jezabel gives the Cardmaster a dazed glance, as he awkwardly attempts to wipe blood from his face and only succeeds in bloodying his cuff. "Yes. It was largely unsuccessful." The kid blanches at the medical tray.

"Good. You can take notes then."

Nausea rises to my throat. "What?"

Cain blanches and struggles against his bonds. "No, Father!"

"Which one, sir?" Moon holds something in her gloved hands, rotating it; still as emotionless as ever.

"It was an unsuccessful procedure, resulting in impairment and infantile regression!" Jezabel is becoming flustered, as he tries to free himself from the Cardmaster's grasp.

The Cardmaster pauses but for a second before uttering "Cassian."

I can no longer feel my hands; all the blood has drained away from them.

Jezabel's eyes widen in shock. "This is an unnecessary procedure, and I do not-"

The Cardmaster cuts him off, as he twists Jezabel's hair tightly. "You made that choice to go against my orders and the rules of my organization, out of your own free will. Choices have consequences."

Averting his eyes, Jezabel turns to the side, away from me.

"No, you _will_ watch." The Cardmaster gives the Moon a curt flick of his head, and she approaches me. I finally see what she is carrying: a metal rod of sorts. I cannot identify it; Jezabel never used it. "Now, Cassian, Ida is going to drive this into your skull. She's going to insert it into your eye socket, through some bone tissue, and into your brain. You'll cease to have feelings, memories, and even thoughts." He strokes Jezabel's birch-white neck. "Then we can see if Jezabel can pull another brain transplant."

The last thing I see before the Moon crowds me is his pale face and eyes widened in fear. "Kid," I struggle against the pain. "Kid, I love you, alright? Jezabel, I love you, so don't go forgetting that someone loved y-"

My world fades to night, as I lose consciousness for the last time in my brief life.

 _Jezabel._

* * *

 **Notes:**

Well, how about that? Poor Cassian, I really liked him, but I wanted to write a different sort of story for these two, and Cain and Riff. I've wanted to write this story for a while, so please stick with me. Your feedback is always valued and appreciated.


	2. Chapter 2

New chapter, new perspective! :D  
And another warning for body horror/torture in this part. If you want to avoid it, read until "But terror has stolen my voice, and I can only watch." and continue at "A knock at the door..." What can I say, except that Alexis is on a roll. And that is good for precisely no one.

* * *

 _Cain_

Mouth dry from fear, I can only stare as the man (Cassian?) collapses, blood spilling from his face. ( _I'm next, I'm next_ , a panicked voice repeats in my mind. I feel five again and as terrified as when my stepmother lunged towards me with a hatchet.) I struggle to free myself, again, but the cold metal of the handcuffs only mocks me.

With a triumphant grin across his too-pale face, Father stands with the Doctor. Blood speckles his glasses, but he does not move to clean them, instead reveling in the sight. His eyes are far too bright now; death has always enlivened Father. However, his attention has shifted from Cassian's bloodied, limp body to the Doctor.

"And now you see the consequences of your actions." Father's satisfied voice sounds out of place in the terror that permeates the room. "Jezabel, you can't seem to refrain from taking lives, can you? First your sisters, and then Snark, and then your mother, and now—" Father gestures to Cassian's body. "Your former assistant."

Father shifts slightly, and I finally can see the Doctor clearly: he seemed to be largely supported by Father's grip on his arm. And yet, he keeps staring at Cassian with a mixture of fear and helplessness and something else I can't name. (Tenderness? Concern?) Mikaila had told me that the Doctor had a heart that excluded humanity—and I had certainly not witnessed any evidence to the contrary during our encounters—but I soften at how the opaqueness of the Doctor's eyes vanishes as he frantically examines the body from where he stands with Father. (Probably looking for a sign of life.) Something akin to pity awakens in my heart. I know what it's like to live with the man who only leaves death behind him.

"You always leave a trail of blood behind you," Father continues, taking clear pleasure in the way terror blanches the Doctor's face. "I think it's time we ended that, don't you? For what is the use of a son whose devotion is lacking?" Dragging the Doctor behind him, Father pauses in front of his throne, before shoving him into it. "Ida, come."

My heart freezes when I realize what Father is about to do—again. But terror has stolen my voice, and I can only watch.

"My son, do not despise the Lord's discipline or be weary of his reproof," Father recites, taking the thin rod from Ida. "For the Lord reproves him whom he loves, as a father the son in whom he delights." The Doctor has gone so pale that I'm surprised that he is still conscious. I get a better look at it this time: it resembles a slender, delicate ice pick, curiously enough, and then Father picks up the hammer, which I had not seen before, and begins to repeat Ida's actions, this time with the Doctor. Over the Doctor's sharp intakes of pain, I hear Father reciting again: "Thus says the Lord: 'For three transgressions of Judah, and for four, I will not revoke the punishment, because they have rejected the law of the Lord, and have not kept his statutes, but their lies have led them astray—' "

A knock on the door interrupts Father's concentration, and annoyed, he glances up, more monster than man. "What?" he demands, irritably.

"Cardmaster, it's the vessel." The masked man shuffled, uncomfortable at the sight before him. "She's not stable. She keeps attacking the surgeons."

Father looks the Doctor over dismissively, before turning his attention back to the newcomer. "Come, Ida," he demands. "We'll finish this later." He pockets the surgical instruments, before turning on his heel, black cape billowing behind him.

I slump into my chair, as the door closes behind them, and my heart trembles from fear like a little bell.

* * *

Time passes strangely. Cassian does not stir, and I fear the worst. I quietly curse myself for thinking that I could ever consider myself a match for Father, the skilled manipulator with a thousand strings and a thousand plans. I'm too frightened to cry, and I refuse to let him glimpse tear marks on my face. If Father will kill me, as he undoubtedly plans to, then I will deny him this minuscule satisfaction. I understand now why Cassian spat into Father's face. It's the small rebellions one clings to in the end.

My thoughts travel to Mary. In the end, I could not protect her, and the thought pains me. (He was right: I can't protect anyone. What a fool I am.)

The coldness settles amongst us, like the London fog I will never see again. What's left now, but to wait. Wait for death, wait for the end, wait for the rod. My morose thoughts are interrupted by movement on the throne. The Doctor stirs from his position, clasping a hand to the blood that freely flows from one side of his face. Truthfully, it's a frightening sight, but I am drawn to it, for it promises me a way out. If I can convince him to free me, then I still have a chance at stopping Father.

He doesn't seem to notice me, as he weakly walks over to Cassian. Using his sleeve, he wipes away the saliva and some of the blood on Cassian's face, frowning when he manages to smear some of it. He keeps this up for a good few minutes in a methodical manner. It's a strange sight, for the hands that I have seen to dispatch men carelessly to their deaths, to be used for something almost domestic. When he finishes, he just searches Cassian's bloodless face.

I'm afraid to interrupt, but every moment I remain bound is another moment to escape lost. I fear his violence, but in the end, it hardly matters if he ends my life or Father does.

"Does it hurt?" I manage at last, breaking the Doctor's trance.

The Doctor does not turn to face me, but continues to stare at Cassian. "Are you happy that you've finally managed to take everything from me?" There's a undercurrent of anger and bitterness in his tone. For a moment, I'm unsure to whom he's addressing.

"Father did that, not me," I counter. "But we can stop him. Just, just free me."

The Doctor does not reply, instead closing Cassian's eyes. Desperate, I try a different tactic.

"You cared about him? Cassian, right?"

Silence falls again between him and me, as I wait.

"He died for me." The Doctor shakes his head in disbelief. "It was such a foolish behavior. I was ready to die, but he _died for me_. And for what? To die—again—in terror and pain." Anger returns to the Doctor's face. "I knew _nothing_ about him. Not where he was born, what he secretly hoped for, nor what his last words were."

One hand dips into his pocket, and it returns with a scalpel. "But I won't give Father the pleasure of killing me, or worse." The other hand jerks protectively towards the wound in his head. "That he won't get."

I calculate my next steps carefully. If he kills himself, then any hope of escaping is lost. I have to keep him talking. As long as he keeps talking, he'll remain alive and convincible. My ruthlessness shames me; he is just a tool for me to use and discard. I'm more like Father than I had thought.

"Do the scars hurt? Mine won't stop hurting."

The Doctor gives me an indifferent shrug.

"He killed your sisters, and your lamb, and Cassian," I start. "You cannot allow him to continue to leave a trail of carnage behind him."

For the first time, the Doctor looks at me in surprise, and I realize the difference between us: he's resigned himself to Father's cruelty and I have not. I cannot.

"Just free me, and I'll stop him," I continue, desperately. "For both of us. Because I can't let Father bring any more children like us into the world."

That seems to do it. The Doctor frowns in thought, before rummaging in his pockets. He proceeds to pick the lock on my handcuffs, and to my look of surprise, quietly retorts, "I hope you didn't fancy yourself the only one with lock-picking skills." In a few moments, I'm free.

I move my wrists in shock, rubbing feeling back into them, tracing the cuts from the handcuffs brought about by my panic. "Thank you," I whisper. Now that I'm back on my feet, the room appears different. My mind reels as I plan out my next moves: I must find Father and kill him. Him and Riff. But how?

"What did Father mean by 'the vessel'? Where did he go to?"

The Doctor returns his attention to Cassian, scalpel back in his hand. "The surgical room on the third floor. You can take the back stairwell. The room is five doors from there."

I frown. I don't know how I'll pass in Delilah, unless...unless I can convince him to be my guide. Watching him carefully, I begin. "He said he loved you. That you shouldn't forget that he loved you."

The Doctor's face registers momentary shock, before becoming a mask of indifference, and I now know how to get to him. I'm ashamed of my callousness, but it's for the greater good.

"He gave his life for you, and if you kill yourself, no one else will remember him. I don't-didn't," I correct myself, as I reload my revolver. "Didn't know him like you did." Words fall out of my mouth before I can take them back. "And I cannot stop Father myself. I need you to show me the way there."

Silence hangs between us, now. There's an internal debate within the Doctor: self-destruction and revenge, misery and peace, forgetting and remembering. There's a hard look to his eyes that gives me pause, but I cannot back down now. I have the feeling that I have the tiger by the tail.

"Alright," he whispers, and I can hardly believe my ears. His hand finds Cassian's, caressing his bloodied fingers.

When we leave the room, I almost miss the way he casts one final look backwards.

* * *

 **Notes:**

Well, Cassian will be coming back. No fear. He's not out of the picture just yet.  
No quote this time. Feels weird to not have one, but oh well.  
As always, your feedback is greatly appreciated and valued.


	3. Chapter 3

_Jezabel_

I can hardly think through the blinding pain in my skull. Whippings have failed to prepare me for this radiating pain that I cannot find solace in. (Father tried to perform a leucotomy on me. A _leucotomy_. To rob me of my thoughts and memories and _will_.) Cassian's look of anguish replays in my mind like one of the zoopraxiscopes he showed me once. It had several images painted onto its disk, and when spun, gave the impression of motion; he had remarked that inventions like that would soon put the circuses out of business. How strange it all feels to reminisce about a man whose corpse has not even cooled yet.

I set a quick pace, because a slower one will leave me with thoughts I do not want to entertain. The last finger of my left hand keeps spasming, and moving takes more concentration than it used to. (Loss of motor function is a symptom of a successful leucotomy, my half-remembered notes of Burckhardt's work remind me nastily. Six patients in total. Two remained the same, one quietened, two died, and the other worsened. One in three chance of normalcy if Father succeeded. Just _lovely_. If he did is now the better question. I am unsure, and the feeling looms uncomfortably.)

A quick glance over my shoulder reveals Cain's look of determination and... fear? No, that's not it. Concern? I've grown accustomed to the blood that seeps from the hole in my skull, but clearly Cain has not. His look angers me, for some reason. If he had never been born, then I would never have become like this. I would have Snark, and the forest, and—

I contemplate turning on my heel and killing the both of us. (No more difficult than falling asleep.) I doubt Cain would see the scalpel before it opens his veins like a river, and he would lose consciousness in a mere ten seconds. A truly merciful death. Something stills my hand, however, and I do not know if it is the work of God or the Devil; perhaps both have left us to our hell.

I cannot imagine anything worse than this.

* * *

We reach the stairwell in terrible silence. The walls there seem to have been given life, for they keep revolving like a damned carousel (spinning and spinning and spinning like yarn from the distaff turning into the thread of life in Clotho's terrible hands), and for a moment, just a moment, I can see Mother's face again. I had almost forgotten her face, the way her blonde ringlets framed her ghostly face, I realize. How could I forget the woman who abandoned me for her own fantasy?

I touch the wall cautiously, and, relieved when it remained firm under my fingers, I lean against it, closing my eyes to see if that will relieve the dizziness. _(A symptom of brain injury_ , that terrible voice reminds me. _Father has no medical training, of course_. _It would be easy for him to slip up. One nick in the wrong area and—_ )

Cain's voice mercifully interrupts the voice's incessant catalog of symptoms. "Doctor," he begins cautiously, "are you feeling ill?" There's fear this time underneath the overconfidence: perhaps he thinks my delay a trap. I decide right there that if he tells me one more thing about Cassian, then I will open his throat, consequences be damned. But Fate is unjustly in his favor—as always—and so he adds nothing to his question.

I foolishly put a hand to my forehead, to contain the spinning. Finding words now feels like trying to hold water in my hands. ( _One quietened. Two died. One worsened._ ) It's remarkably, and unusually, difficult to think of a suitable retort to his question, so I remain silent.

Cain, however, has been made nervous by the silence, and so he begins again, unable to let anything go. His lovely eyes follow the flowing branches of blood on my face. "Father didn't...did he?"

"The word you're grasping for is leucotomy," I retort bitterly. _And I don't know._ _He broke through the skull, that...that I felt._

He decides to ask the question that he has clearly been turning over in his mind. "Why are you alive, when...when—"

"Because only one of us in that room has a semblance of medical training." I pause, to return my attention to the wall. "The brain is a remarkably fragile organ, even for a surgeon. Cut in the wrong area, and one loses function. Drive a rod into it, and _unsurprisingly some patients die_."

I can feel the weight of Cassian's brain in my hands again. His entire being in those three pounds. And for what did I carry out that operation now? If I had known, I would have left him to die there. That would have been kinder, even for a human being.

(When did I include him in my small world?)

Fortunately, my stillness has lightened the dizziness, enough for me to continue on and leave those thoughts behind.

* * *

My hand pauses on the knob of the door. Whispers trickle through: "Darling, my darling. Easy now." Jealousy rises in me; Father's obsessed with that damned vessel, so much so that he never saw my devotion to him. Cain's slender hand moves towards the door.

"Are you certain you want to see him again?" His eyes betray a certain, grim determination. "This is between him and me. I _will_ end this." I've never realized before how _weary_ he looks.

I catch sight of my bloodied cuff and think of Cassian's body again. "No, it's not."

Cain gives me a curious look, but remains quiet.

The knob yields to a crisp surgical room. Alexis kneels with his back to us, murmuring, as he would to a child, to the vessel—visually a perfect replica of Augusta, but it lacks a soul, so it salivates at the mouth like a rabid beast and has to be restrained. Currently, it seems to have been drugged into a stupor. A quick glance confirms my hypothesis: on a nearby stand are scissors, gauze, scalpels, several vials of sedative, used hypodermic needles, and the like.

"Ida," he begins, and upon seeing us, a look of bemusement crosses his face, only to be replaced by one of composed calm. The damp rag, with which he has evidently been cleaning its face, hangs in his hand.

"My sons have come to see me again. Well then, come." His tone is warm. I can almost forget that he tried to drive a rod through my brain less than half an hour ago.

Cain's gaze sweeps the room, evidently in search of Ida, but she appears to have been ordered away.

Father smiles the smile of my childhood with Snark, offering his free hand. "Come here, Jezabel. You look just awful. Let me wash away some of that mess." My legs betray me as I walk to him, against Cain's strangled cry of "Doctor!", and I know now that I will never, ever turn against this man. I am his—unwillingly but entirely so. He has killed Cassian, whom I so foolishly believed to be my first hope of escape. I was wrong. Father has showed me that I will never be free.

Cain stands still, revolver in his hands, but unable to shoot either one of us. (Perhaps we are not so unlike.)

The rag feels blissful against my face. He delicately dabs the paths of blood, like chaste little kisses. I lose myself in this wonder, so much so that when he withdraws the rag, the loss is devastating.

"My son, I had to cleanse you of your sins," Father says quietly, solemnly. A priest betrayed. His hand against my face entrances me.

I want nothing more than this. Cain shouts something, but it hardly matters.

"I forgave your trespasses against me," Father continues softly, fully aware that he has my complete attention. His hand cups my face, before journeying down to my neck. "And yet, you continue to wallow in sin." So entranced by his words am I, that I see the knife long before I register its presence. He seizes my hair in a firm grasp, and although I try to break free, he once again proves to be the stronger of us. It narrowly misses my throat, cutting my hair instead. Losing his grasp on me, he collapses on me, and we fall to the ground, knocking over the stand.

The impact of his weight knocks the air from my lungs. He's heavy, too heavy. (For a moment, I am sixteen again, and he is telling me how my body belongs to him. That he created it, and how he can use it as he pleases.) He raises the knife again, and I _cannot think_ :my mind is blank from fear, like it was with the stranger.

But there is blood pouring from his neck onto me, like a perverse baptism. And there is something in my hand. His malachite eyes search my face in confusion before turning opaque, and his mouth fumbles with the words, but what I hear stuns me.

He then slumps onto me, truly dead.

My gaze falls to the bloodied scissors in my hand. (How fitting that I should play the part of Atropos, she who cuts the thread.) My body has betrayed me once again, and a million images pass through my mind, as his blood marks me as the murderer I am. Perhaps I should have been named Cain.

There's screaming, and I can no longer distinguish whose voice it is, if it is Cassian's or Cain's. The vessel's or mine.

* * *

 **Notes:**

Again, thank you for reading. Let me know what you thought, if you'd like.  
I'm not sorry Alexis is dead. He had it coming.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes:**

Well chickadees, looks like another three weeks have passed us, which means it's suffering time again. Not gonna lie; this chapter and the preceding one were heavily inspired by the stop-motion Alice film. Go watch it, if you'd like to not sleep tonight.  
Never fear, there is an outline. A real outline. As in, I know the themes and what will happen in all the chapters and to all the characters. Which is how I know that there will be twelve chapters. And I will finish this even if it kills me.

* * *

 _Jezabel_

The scissors are too heavy in my hand, but they won't leave me. The weight of the metal in my hand anchors my body, no matter how tenuously, to this mortal coil, and my thoughts have all scattered like horses except for a single realization: I am damned for what I have done here. Father's last words won't leave me as easily as his ghost has. I am _damned_ now, more of a sinner than I ever was before. This above all the other sins _—_ the lust, the lies, the continuous taking of life, all of it! I can feel the fires of hell on my skin, as Father's blood leaves its indelible mark. I am **_damned_** , and I-I have ruined everything in my foolishness. Why can I not be dutiful? Why must I continue to mutilate my soul at every opportunity?

" I... love you." Father's last, broken words sound in my mind as loudly as church bells summoning the faithful. Like Jesus pardoning the Pharisees, his last words were those of a forgiveness I do _not_ deserve. In my foolish self-preservation _—my cowardice—_ I have killed the only man who ever loved me _._ I will _never_ know love now.

I no longer deserve to know love now.

The damnable screaming transitions into irregular gasps, as abruptly as it arrived, but the sight of Father's coagulating blood proves too much, for even me. It coats me entirely, dripping onto my parted lips, dipping onto my clavicle, descending along my spine. His corpse greedily trying to press itself into my bones.

(Even in death, he has to claim my body, one last time.)

With most of Father's blood emptied onto me, I desperately try to shove him off.

 _Cassian's dying body, outwardly so slight, has the weight of a millstone. I had heard of a man who tried to measure the weight of a soul; from its stubborn refusal to abandon its body, Cassian's soul must weigh more than twenty-one grams. (Perhaps that's the true difference between us: he has a boundless heart where I possess only a threadbare one of a miser.) I dry my face hastily, before calling one of Cassandra's carriages, under the pretense that I am going to save the man. Before his servants arrive, I make sure to administer a powerful sedative._

 _They think me his newest lover, which could not be farther from the truth, and so the men say nothing to me, as they lift their semiconscious master into the carriage, not knowing that he will never return. Not if I have my way. Inside the carriage, I clasp Cassian's paling body tightly, murmuring reassuring nonsense to it as the vehicle jostles about us._

 _Its heaviness frightens me._

The corpse's hand slides lifelessly against the floor; even in death, it refuses to relinquish the knife.

Cassandra is on me again, his heavy-lidded eyes alight with lust. With unblemished nails and immaculate fingers, he slowly, slowly unbuttons my vest, then my shirt. Slides a soft hand down my exposed chest to settle between my legs. He smells of patchouli and wine and sweat. "You're mine now," he murmurs, with a quick nip at my throat.

 _I close my eyes against the sight, and give him what he desires; it's the easier option, more productive than resistance, and I can almost find solace in his kisses, his embrace, his loathsome touch. (The warmth he gives me is, in its own perverse way, almost like being loved.) I return his kiss, a beautiful illusion of love and desire, whispering my agreement. Only my shivering from fear betrays my lie, as I pull him closer to me, to hoard his warmth like a whore. Like my namesake._

 _(If it will happen without my say, then I may as well make the best of it.)_

 _My lies inflame him, and removing himself from me, he jerks me to my knees. A finger traces the curve of my lips, before he seizes my hand and presses it against his trousers in an unspoken demand._

 _I comply._

With the surge of adrenaline that that memory provokes, I succeed in freeing myself from the corpse, unsure of just whom it belongs to. Nearby, Cain watches me with pity and concern in those hateful eyes, having bolted forwards. If he comes any closer, I know beyond a certainty that I will end this for both of us. The moment is so close, that I can see the way his throat will empty itself of its blood, the way he'll choke on it, before falling into the night.

(Isn't that what he wanted? To end this? _This_ is how it ends. In blood and terror.)

Perhaps it's the way I can't let go of the bloodied scissors that gives him warning, since he maintains the current distance with a distinct wariness. His gaze falls from the scissors to the corpse to me; I can almost hear the connections he's quietly forming.

"You've _damned_ me," I spit at him. "You've damned both of us." I rake my hands through my hair. I feel dangerously faint from my heightened state, and I want to bury the hateful evidence of my damnation in his slender, ivory body.

"I didn't do anything, Doctor." He watches me closely. "What's the woman for?" he asks, gesturing to the stupefied vessel with his revolver. "Why does she look like Aunt Augusta?"

I ponder giving him an explanation, but the idea of having something of Father's all to myself proves too alluring. He has everything else of Father's: his face, his family, his title, his mansion. Why can't I have this secret all to myself?

"Does it matter?" I retort, before severing its life-support cords, and he gasps, shock registering on his face.

"Oh, it didn't have a soul. It was just a bundle of flesh. An abomination to God, really," I say nastily. The sight of its life ebbing away fails to calm me as it usually does. Its slackening limbs remind me of Cassian, and I am overcome by my guilt: he would still be alive, living the life God intended him to have, if it wasn't for me. The scissors beckon to me, but it's no longer Cain's body they want to hide in.

"Why? Why would Father do this?" Cain forgets himself momentarily and advances towards me.

"Stay away from me!" To my surprise, it's fear which tinges my voice, not hatred.

He backs away slightly, mouth opening to repeat his question, but his words are cut off by the arrival of Riffael and Ida.

"Cardma _—_ " Riffael begins in a bored tone, only to spot me and the corpses. His lips twist in surprise, then malevolent amusement.

Ida clearly does not share his sentiments, for she dashes over to Father's side, with only a cursory glance at me. She clasps Father's corpse in her arms like a Pietà. Her light eyes dart over the clean, deep wound in his neck, and her gloved hand makes a futile attempt to close it.

"What have you done?" she whispers to no one in particular, but I suspect it's addressed to me.

Riffael quickly assesses the situation. "Well, little Jezabel, I should thank you for clearing the path to the Cardmaster's throne. I had longed to feel the bones in his neck snap under my grasp, but it seems that you has robbed me of that opportunity." There's malice in his sea-grey eyes. "I had a bet that it was going to be you who finally cracked and killed him. Don't look so morose; you've won me thirty shillings." He chuckles, before whispering so that only I can hear. "Do tell me: what finally provoked this? Did he want you to bed another Card?"

The last of my blood leaves me. Did _everyone_ know about what _—_

He claps me on the shoulder, and I have an urge to break every one of those spidery fingers. "Come now. It's not a secret what you and Gladstone got up to. The man could never keep a secret." He wets his lips. "Of course," he whispers slyly, "I always figured you for the type to get bothered by whips and rope."

Shame overrules my hatred of him, and for a moment, it's Cassandra's pampered hand that rests on my shoulder. ("Come now; you enjoyed yourself. If you didn't want it, you'd have put up a fight.")

I clutch at myself, to try to keep myself together. Cassandra's words ring true. I should have settled for being struck until I lost consciousness. But...I gave into him out of weakness and pain and the feeling of being irrevocably soiled. I accepted his warmth in lieu of payment—like a whore. Yet another grave sin.

My vision, from either the loss of blood or the hole in my skull, begins to darken at the edges. Recognizing this sign of impending loss of consciousness, I brace myself against the wall. My body feels strangely detached.

Riffael gives me a curious, appraising look, before turning his sight on Cain.

Cain adjusts his revolver accordingly. "Not another step closer."

"Or you'll shoot me? Shoot Riff?" He grins. "I don't think you have it in you."

I can just barely make out their conversation now. To my shame, I want nothing more than Father to get up from his position in Ida's arms and hold me again, like he did when I was young and alive and free of sin. But I've ruined any chance of that ever occurring again now. (Not that he would have wanted to embrace a sinner.)

I briefly wonder if I'm dying and decide that I hardly care either way. Father was right: I cannot exist without him. I'm merely dissolving into sea foam like the mermaid who wanted what could never be hers. How disgustingly fitting.

The fires of hell are so close now.

* * *

 _Cain_

My hands tighten on the revolver as Riff _—_ no, Riffael—as Riffael looks at me, lips crooked in a mocking smile. I cannot hear what he said to the Doctor, but from the way he paled, I doubt it was praise. The past only beckons dangerously, and I must shut it out, like Odysseus and the Sirens, if I am to complete my final task—to set Riff free. My hands shake, as I contemplate how it will be to see the red rivers of Riff's body freed. The body that held me, that kissed away my childhood fears, that remained the only constant in my life throughout it all. The body that showed me that Father was wrong about me. That I am not the Biblical monster he made me out to be, to wander alone and be marked for the rest of my cursed days.

"I don't think you have it in you."

He advances half a step, those grey eyes mocking. His gaze is not dissimilar to the cobra's, which is said to hypnotize its victims before delivering its poison.

I think of Mary for the second time today. The way her blue eyes will darken with tears, enough to drown her, and how Uncle Neil will stare at the stopped clock for far too long. I was not strong enough, it seems.

But she knew, didn't she, that I would not be returning in the flesh?

(Is it harder, I wonder, to die willingly or to remain alive?

I have never imagined myself living after confronting Father. His corpse seems too slender to have housed such a monster.)

Riffael has advanced so close to me now that the barrel of my revolver presses against his chest.

"Shoot, if you can," he taunts, fully aware that I cannot. Moments pass like drops of rain, each landing loud. Finally, with a smirk, he places a hand on the barrel of my revolver to lower it. "Thought as much."

I curse my indecision. I can no more kill him, than I could all those times.

His fingers move to wrap around my throat, to finish the task that his declaration began. They are merely a centimeter away from my neck, when he screams in agony and grabs at his head, falling to his knees. The spell breaks.

"Let me go!" The hoarseness of Riffael's voice shocks me.

"Not Lord Cain!" One hand seizes the opposite wrist so tightly that his straining tendons are visible. "You will not harm him."

I realize that my Riff _is still alive_. Hope proves addictive.

"Fight him, Riff!" I maintain my distance from him, my heart fluttering. Everything will be worth it if only Riff can return home with me. I want nothing more than what I had before Father re-introduced himself to my life. Riff's tea, with the citrus fragrance of bergamot. Mary's cheerful ways, always ready with a smile. It never occurs to me that freezing the past is but a fool's errand.

More minutes fall between us, before Riff groans and slumps as if all the bones in his body have turned into milk. "Lord Cain," he manages, with the look of love I have missed all these angry and tempestuous weeks.

I hang back, uncertain yet in the throes of hope.

"It's no trap. Riffael won't harm you anymore." When he offers me his hand, just like he used to all those years ago in the gardens, my resolve breaks, and I embrace him like the lost child I am. Blood and sweat and that distinctly _Riff_ combination of lavender and laundry soap reach me.

"Next time you leave me for that long, I'll dock your pay," I manage. "You lousy servant." A wanton tear loosens itself against my wishes, and Riff wipes it away.

He rocks me gently, like a mother with her infant, and I lean against him, feeling the wanton creases that ordinarily would have been vanquished. It hardly matters. Travelling down his back, my hands reach the protruding bones of his spine. Riff has become thinner since he left, almost as if—

"I wanted to hold you one last time, Lord Cain."

"What? Surely not?" My voice cracks in fear.

"All men die, Lord Cain. Why should I be any different."

"You are more than a man to me! I need you by me, Riff!"

A look of utter sorrow passes over him. "I'm more akin to Michaela than a man, my Lord. I cannot let you see my passing in such a manner."

"NO!" I abandon my embrace of him in horror. "NO! I will not allow it. You cannot do that to me! To me _and_ Mary! Surely, there must be a way."

"I cannot put you in danger for my own selfish sake," Riff says gently. "Leave me be, and go on home, Lord Cain."

"How? How could you have lasted this long?"

"I was... taken away periodically and re-infused."

'With... blood?" My thoughts spin furiously.

He nods, and I think detect a flush of shame on his pale checks.

Cow's blood can substitute for human blood in a pinch. The remaining question is how. "But who maintained you all these years if what you say is true?"

"The memories remain still vague, but it was Lord Alexis and—"

My gaze trails from Father's lovingly tended corpse to the bloodstained figure against the wall.

"The Doctor," I finish, with dread curling in my stomach.

Riff reluctantly nods.

I shake my head in horror. "No. Anything but that." To put my faith in the man who has tried to murder me and Mary numerous times, who has professed his sick adoration for my eyes... It seems more Faustian than reasonable. From what I understand from Michaela's plight, Riff will need to be maintained on a regular basis. To take the Doctor into my home, I would be putting my family in danger, my life, everything I hold dear.

But if there's one person who can save him, it is the Doctor. I am desperate enough to make a deal with the devil himself if I had to. And I certainly do. I try to rationalize my decision, but there's fear at its heart: it seems I must choose between my fear of losing Riff and my fear of the Doctor. It's a foolish, desperate hope, and underneath the fear is something I can't quite bring myself to name.

Uncle Neil will not approve.

* * *

 _Jezabel_

There are hands on my body again. Unintelligible words bubble through my state, and I have the dreadful realization that they must be important. In that ambiguous state between consciousness and night, I cannot bring myself to protest. Surely, the angels are dragging me out of my soiled body to mete out judgement, rending me from the flesh like I saw Hans boil the chicken's corpse until its fat-riddled skin simply slipped off. What frightening angels they will be too, especially when I cannot account for any of my sins. I imagine that they will hound me like the Furies, as I descend into Hell. As a sinner, I've long resigned myself to such a fate, and so I make no excuse, as the angel takes me into its arms. Curiously, it wears buttons and pleats and a starched shirt. (Well, angels are said to walk alongside man.)

As my body slackens, the last sight that slips into my haze is _him_.

Cassian.

I make a feeble reach for him but I fall into the nothingness, just as I have rehearsed every night.

* * *

 **Notes:**

Whaaa? What was that? Is Cassian coming back? I'm a cruel author, but I do keep my promises to you.  
As always, thank you for continuing to read.  
Let me know what you thought, if you'd like! I value your feedback


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's note:**

Hi again!

There's a warning for a scene near the end of this chapter. I will not be offended if you choose to skip that section entirely. The relevant section begins at "—and I reflexively startle ..." and ends with "Satisfied that I...".

Also, shout-out to DAIrinchan, my sole reviewer for this story.

If you haven't told me what you think, do let me know. Don't be shy. I promise I'm _much_ nicer than what I write. I love to hear from readers, and I value your feedback.

* * *

 _Jezabel_

When I finally wake, I, rather than burning in the fires of hell, am lying on a bed, the cornflower-blue quilt tucked neatly around me. My head is curiously devoid of pain, and perhaps because of it, I lazily survey the room. Something clouds part of my vision, and it requires all of my concentration and strength to investigate it: a few thin strips of gauze pin down a wad of cotton. The events of the past day fall through my fingers like the beads of a broken necklace, but I feel nothing. Not even the knowledge that this absence of emotion is perhaps the surest sign that Father has succeeded in eliminating my very being moves me.

I continue examining the room. Although the curtains have been drawn, the wallpaper pattern remains visible: morning glory and bellflowers curl around lace-lined, light blue stripes. On a side table, a few carnations hang from their vase, their white petals collecting in an empty teacup. The only other object of significance is a pastoral painting that pains me—of a girl and a lamb. I stare at it, until the meaning becomes unbearable.

My curiosity peaks at this.

The consuming guilt in my heart should not be possible, given the report of blunted emotion in Burckhardt's patients. I formulate a new hypothesis—some sort of sedative has been administered to me. Too strong of a dose, I might add; I doubt I could string together coherent sentences right now, let alone freely move. Another batch of gauze wrapped around the crook of my elbow confirms my hypothesis; the tension and wrapping of the gauze informs me that it has been tied with the hand of an amateur, unused to playing physician. I coldly connect the pieces: I have been taken to Cain's mansion, and he is so terrified of me that he has decided to drug me into a stupor. No doubt with laudanum. He's fortunate—or unfortunate, as it may be; any more and I might have been rendered comatose. Now that would truly bring his plans to ruin.

Another time I would find this deeply amusing.

Instead of relief that I, for the time being, do not appear to exhibiting the major symptom of a successful leucotomy, anger sparks within me. How _dare_ he presume to know my wishes! I suppose he has some perilous need of me—likely to keep Riff alive—to be willing to risk his life. How intriguing that he has something so precious to him that he is willing to take such a risk. Yet, there's a terrible jealousy that stirs in me. Why does he have everything at my expense? I had accepted death and hell, but he needed to draw me back into his plans.

If I could move, I'd throw myself out of the window, just out of sheer spite. But he seems to have taken that into account, and his foresight frustrates me. Or, rather, it registers as only a minor frustration under the dulling blanket of laudanum.

The shadow of a sparrow flutters against the curtain, before taking its leisurely dive. I must be near trees or, even better, a bird's nest; it strikes me as an almost thoughtful gesture, to keep me in a room near such stainless creatures, until I remember that I will _never_ return to the forest. I have been exiled from the Garden, like my brother's namesake, to wander alone and damned for the remainder of my life. Murder is the one sin that God does not forgive.

(I can almost hear Father: "And for your lifeblood I will surely demand an accounting. I will demand an accounting from every animal. And from each human being, too, I will demand an accounting for the life of another human being." Book of Genesis. Father never cared much for the New Testament.)

My gaze returns to the painting. It's hardly a feat of remarkable (or even gifted!) talent, and yet it keeps commanding my attention. The slip of a girl has such a forlorn face—the Virgin Mary, she is not, despite her medieval garb. What of the lamb that trails behind her? Is she leading it to slaughter?

It's just like Cain to remind me of all I have irrevocably lost.

* * *

 _Cain_

Back in the study, I collapse into a chair, taking my head into my hands. I am _so weary_. I could sleep for forty years, save the fact that every time I close my eyes, I see Father's corpse with blood spraying from the neck. The slow dripping of blood from Cassian's eye socket, his look of terror frozen forever. The cry of the woman I shot. Violence leaves its indelible marks; I had thought that I, with my cursed past and my cursed name, would be immune to it, but I was wrong.

Riff smooths my hair tenderly. "You did right, my Lord." And kneeling before me, he begins to button my wrist cuffs again; I hadn't even noticed that they had come undone. "I will follow you to the very end, my Lord."

I cannot help but soften. "We'll be together forever. We can go back to how it was before."

Something moves across his face, something akin to sorrow. He covers my hand with his gloved one. "I will follow you until I must return the bones I have been lent, my Lord."

I furrow my brow at his curious phrasing. "What do you mean by that, Riff? You're not—of course, you're not planning to—" The memory of Michaela's corpse—only dust and bones—rises, unbidden. I think of the chalk-like bones. (How could such a thing exist? I had never taken the Bible's promises of man's origins in dust quite so literally before.)

Riff must have noticed the paling of my face, for he tacitly changes the subject. "Mary will be overjoyed to see you, my Lord."

"How overjoyed do you fancy she'll be, to learn that I am keeping the Doctor here? He tried _to kill her_. " Guilt floods my mind, as I recall how she refused to leave the house for several days after the affair, a hollowness to her eyes far worse than any tears. Am I sacrificing her as well? Maybe I could send her away again until everything is sorted out.

But it's too late to turn back now.

I cannot lose Riff again. I am afraid of everything, but I cannot let that show. I must be brave.

Riff muses a little. "By the time, the laudanum dosage has worn off, your brother will have become accustomed to his surroundings in a way that will minimize distress. It was a kind thing to do."

"Somehow, I doubt he will see it that way. He's probably stewing about how I have wronged him this time." I'm dreading when the laudanum wears off. But I need him to save Riff—and soon. I long for respite from it all. No more blood, no more fear. Just Riff and I and Mary and an endless summer's day. Is that too much for the cursed child to be allowed? Can I have that little dream all for myself?

"I feel as though what happened to him was my fault somehow," I continue. "I can't leave the feeling. If I had never been born—"

"Lord Alexis would have found someone else to assign blame to." There's a fierceness to Riff's eyes that shocks me. " _Anyone_ but himself to hold responsible. And your brother would have transferred his hatred onto that unfortunate person. It has _nought_ to do with you." Tears form, but do not fall, in those eyes. "You have made me anew, Lord Cain! To say so carelessly that you—" He tears his gaze from me, unable to complete his thoughts.

I sweep the room with my gaze, alighting from the heavy linen of the curtains to the stiff backs of the tomes, the carefully sorted letters and trailing honeysuckle, before I softly give voice to my fear." I look in the mirror, and I see his face. Father's face." In my shame, I cannot bear to look at Riff now. I stare at the garden just outside the windows, biting my lip against my tears—the birds dart around the summer flowers, swooping and chattering. I am truly my father's son. I have endangered everyone I hold dear on a sliver of a hope.

At this, he clasps my arms with a wild, desperate look, as if his worst fears have been confirmed. "You are not your father, my Lord. He's not hiding within you, to perpetuate the family curse. Promise me, that you will not forget? You must remember!"

To see my Riff pained by my words is more than I can bear. I fall into his embrace, my hands on his ironed grey suit. (It's so quintessentially _Riff_ that he decided to change into freshly laundered clothes after arriving. Where he found the time, I doubt I will ever know.) His grey eyes hold only boundless love, and this is too dear to last. At the chime of the grandfather clock, Riff diverts his attention to the empty table. "It is time for high tea. Please forgive my lateness."

He bustles away, ever the upstanding image of English propriety, and I am left with my thoughts again. Outside, the birds, sparrows perhaps, duck and glide from their perch in the elms. I envy their carefree life, and am wondering if I ought to ask Riff to put out some birdseed when a swish of blonde hair catches my eye. And my heart leaps with joy. Clad in light pink gingham and lace, Mary peeks around the door shyly, as if she can hardly believe that I have returned alive.

"Mary," I say to break the spell of hesitation that has come over her. Her black strapped shoes ring out against the floor, as she dashes towards me. She leaps onto my lap, tears on her face, and throws her spindle-thin arms around my neck.

"Big brother, big brother," she sobs. "Oh, big brother. You came back."

I return her embrace. "I'm here. I promised you, didn't I?"

Uncle Neil follows, wheeling himself into the room. Relief shows on his worn face that I am no specter. "Now, now, Mary. I'm certain he's tired."

I begin to lightheartedly protest this, when Riff returns, bearing a tray for high tea loaded with sandwiches, biscuits, and cake—and the effect is immediate. Mary gasps, and her little hand burrows into my stained shirt. Alarm registers on Uncle Neil's face.

I clasp her to me protectively. "It's alright, Mary. Riff's come back. He would never harm you, or me, or anyone else."

Riff nods. "Yes, my Lord."

Uncle Neil remains unconvinced. "Please excuse us, Raffit," he says in that ominously polite tone so dear and peculiar to the English aristocracy.

"Of course, my Lord." Setting down the platter, Riff then proceeds to exit the room. Mary seems torn between helping herself to a jam biscuit and her new distrust of Riff.

"Mary, go up to your room to change your pinafore," Uncle Neil continues, softer. "It's almost suppertime for you, and I need to speak with Cain. Alone."

Mary hesitates, looking at me for reassurance.

"Go on." I nudge her. "I'll read you anything of your choosing later."

She weakly smiles. Before she leaves the study entirely, she casts one gaze back, quick as a mouse, as if frightened I will have vanished. Words fail me, as guilt weighs down my heart. Have I truly done well? Have I failed to protect her childhood innocence? The thought that another child might grow up under Father's shadow frightens me, and I resolve to read her the softest, gentlest book I can find. Something to shelter her from the ills of the world.

Uncle Neil remains silent until her footsteps die down. He does not even have to speak: the set of his jaw announces his determination. Defiantly, I help myself to a watercress sandwich. We remain in wary silence before I begin a vastly abridged and edited version of what transpired. After I finish, Uncle Neil gives me a long, strange look.

"Alexis is dead? Finally dead?"

I nod solemnly.

He shakes his head in disbelief. "All these years. Can it be finally over?"

I do not dare to voice my hopes that it might be.

"And Riff?"

"Riff has taken ill, and he cannot be helped by conventional medicine."

"Are you certain of Riff's loyalty?" There's something hard in his eyes now, as he leans forward.

I reach for another sandwich, this time cucumber. "I would stake my life on it. Riff would _never_ harm me, or you, or Mary."

I'm not certain why I feel compelled to restate that fact. (Maybe the memory of his hands closing around my throat are too fresh. Yet, the very thought feels traitorous.)

"And your half brother?"

I paused. It is strange to hear the Doctor being referred to in such _familial_ terms. Particularly since our relationship has been anything but.

I decide to evade the implicit question entirely. "Knows how to treat Riff. Trained as a physician." I'm unsure of how my feelings towards the Doctor, but I suspect I have quite some time to figure it out. Unless he decides to kill me.

Uncle Neil turns over the matter carefully, clearly finding my terse reply suspect. "I'm not pleased with any of this. Far from it. Know that." But contrary to his tone, his face softens, and I lower my guard. (After all these years, I am still uncomfortable around authority figures.)

"I understand."

"And I want a doctor to look at him. Your half brother."

"I've already sent for a doctor from the village." I hope he is not referring to what I think he is.

"An alienist, Cain," Uncle Neil emphasizes in his quietest, firmest tone. "Those are my terms: an alienist and Mary sent away for now."

I cannot even be angry with Uncle Neil: I would have asked the same, save that I'm certain that the Doctor's insanity will be discovered almost immediately. And Uncle Neil will insist that then he will be committed to an asylum, like Aunt Augusta, and Riff will die. My plan is proving far more difficult to execute than I had anticipated.

I nod, my mind spinning furiously. "Very well."

I think of Riff and harden my resolve.

I remember how Daniel was cast into the lions' den. Numerous, starving lions, whose terrible jaws the angel Gabriel held clasped.

Like him, I must be brave.

* * *

 _Jezabel_

By now, the laudanum has worn off. I have full use of my limbs now, but my skin is like heated glass—every sensation magnified to an unbearable extreme. A brief touch may as well be a glass shard. I have half a mind to peel my whole damnable skin off, if only it will ease this chaos. My heart is thundering so frantically that I am nauseous—I want to smother it into quiet. To crush it until it stills. The hole in my head, on the other hand, is burning, and I long to twist it open, break the rest of the skull—just so it will cease. My flesh appears to be rebelling against me, for continuing to exist when I ought to be burning in hell.

It occurs to me that I have always existed in one of those two extreme states—either dissociated or painfully aware.

But what to do about the chaos? I cannot think beyond the pain.

I have settled for tugging out strands of my hair, to try to placate the chaos—even my own touch proves upsetting, and I cannot find anything sharp nearby—when the door unlocks. Cain and a man I cannot identify enter the room. His black Gladstone bag, however, immediately marks him as a physician. Oh how charming. (Have I misjudged him? Am I to be consigned to an insane asylum by brother dearest instead? Considering that's where Augusta spent her final _twelve_ _years_ there, I do not discard the idea easily.)

Drawing up a chair, Cain surveys me carefully. He seems almost relieved to see that I have not strayed from the bed. "This is Doctor Muir. I've asked him to take a look at your head wound."

The doctor advances towards me as I retreat warily. Cain frowns—I suppose he had hoped the effects of his concoction would last longer than they had.

"Easy, easy now." The doctor tries to reassure me by displaying his empty hands. Not unlike how one would handle an agitated horse. But his paternal tone angers me, not in the least because it reminds me of own sins.

He pauses in thought. "Let me give you something for your nerves." He fumbles in his bag, before producing a bottle of a tincture—reddish-brown, like clay—that I immediately recognize as laudanum. A small dose would be enough to render me unconscious for a good few hours.

"Lie back," he instructs, drawing part of the solution into a hypodermic needle. "It won't be any more than a pinch; no worse than a bee sting."

Again, that gratingly paternal tone. How dare he! I'm not a helpless child, needing my hand held every step of the way. I have used similar wording with some of my more obstinate patients. (Of course, with my most trying patients, my hand tends to _slip_. A terribly unfortunate passing. My condolences. Medical science has only come so far, _et cetera_.)

"No," I maintain, with my best, even stare.

He sighs, setting the hypodermic needle onto the side table. No doubt knowing—as I do—that I am far more liable to lose consciousness in my heightened state than bend to his will.

"Just let him examine you. It won't help to be difficult." Cain takes his head into his hands. More exhausted than frustrated. "It needs to be looked at by a professional. The alternative is being tied to the bed."

"Right then," the doctor concedes amicably. "Let's take a look." When he moves to unwrap Cain's clumsy bandage, I recoil from the way his fingertips brush against my forehead—

 _Father is above me, his eyes intent on his task. Blood wets my face, blinding and binding my vision. Staining my world in the color best suited to it. At the very top of my sight, the instrument of my destruction. I realize with an sharp intake, that the pain indicates that it must be inside my head—_

—I can't stop shaking. I can't manage words—if I open my mouth now, I will never cease screaming. I want to cut everything, everyone into a thousand, ugly, irregular pieces, until _nothing_ remains intact—until the world matches my insides. A sharp pain registers in my hand—I must have knocked it against the bed post in my attempt to put distance between him and I. My gaze does not leave the doctor. Doesn't he understand that my very flesh rejects this world?

Cain has risen from his seat, a strange look of intense concentration on his face. His frown has returned, and he appears to be holding an internal debate.

With a long, appraising look, the doctor studies me carefully, taking in my fast, shallow breathing—before reaching for the hypodermic. There's pity in his grandfatherly eyes. "I'm going to give you something for your nerves before you injure yourself further."

I shake my head. When he reaches for my arm, I draw it back—closer to me—apprehensively.

"Do you need assistance?" Outwardly composed, Cain's voice has an undertone of concern. But for whom?

I decide there to gut Cain when the chance arises. I hate him so—that he should feel so damned entitled and noble and _above me_ —that he feels so damn morally superior to me—that he should _deign to show me concern and pity—_

"Earl?"

"Do let me assist you," Cain's tone is weary and resigned; whatever decision he has come to pains him. "I have some experience, and it will not do any good to draw this out. It needs to be looked at." Up-close, Cain's face appears haggard, despite his efforts to appear to the contrary—and I wonder if that is Father's final curse. But I do not ponder this for long.

In a single movement, the doctor immobilizes me gently but firmly, pressing me against the sheets. I stifle a scream at his touch, his horrid touch—

 _Cassandra is on me, his bare flesh against mine._

 _Evidently, that was how he interpreted Father's orders to assist him—by being the recipient of his loathsome affections._

 _He hisses obscene promises into my ear of what is to come, as his fingers curl inside me, and his groans make me want to disembowel him. Take him apart, wet piece by wet piece, like an exquisite piece of machinery until nothing, save the hull, remains._

—and I reflexively startle at Cain's touch, as he proceed to methodically roll up my sleeve to expose my forearm. I'm so fixated on what Cain is doing with my bare arm that I hardly notice that the doctor is murmuring soft nonsense to me in an attempt to soothe me. Pressure above my elbow announces that he has selected a suitable vein, and I gasp as the cold metal slides in. The doctor increases his babble, no doubt to distract me, but it does not suffice—I almost faint from the feeling of helplessness. The drug invades my veins in a measured, cold stream, and finally the needle is withdrawn.

Minutes pass in silence amongst us, before my body goes limp. The doctor waits another few minutes, then relinquishes his hold on me with an exhale. My own breathing slows, and my heartbeat softens into a more harmonious beat. He gently brushes away some of my hair, a horrifying tenderness in his eyes, as if I am his favorite misbehaving grandson. Peers into my face, checking for dilated pupils to indicate that the drug has taken effect.

Satisfied that I have been properly sedated, he resumes his task, with a reassuring touch of my shoulder. "Sorry about that. It _is_ for your own good. You'll feel right as rain when you wake." I note dimly that my flesh seems to have quietened; his touch does not pain me like the last one.

I close my eyes; it is terribly useless to struggle against the drug's promise of sleep.

The bandage comes off easily in his hands, and the fresh air upon it is not unpleasant.

"...There, the...pain? He seemed..."

"...procedure... largely unknown...records..."

"...probability...of infection...Look, there..."

They continue on in that manner long after I drown in my amorphous dreams of red and teeth, cold and bone.

* * *

 _Riff_

Down in the servant's quarters, the bustling servants regard me with a curious suspicion. I do not know what Lord Neil has chosen to tell them, but gossip passes through these quarters like currency or strong drink, and more than one maid gives me a careful look, eyes dark with worry. I resolve to sublimate my nervousness into usefulness by assisting with preparations for tonight's informal supper. I still need to go up to the Doctor's room, and see if he has awakened yet. Lord Cain told me, leaving the Doctor's room, that he had been petulant and distressed earlier with Doctor Muir from the village and that I should be cautious in case he is upset about the entire affair.

Personally, I count it a minor miracle that I do not have to scrub blood out of the curtains. Petulance I can handle. And I care far more for that hollow look on my Lord's face which speaks to me of guilt and sorrow and pain; he has done something unpleasant that has wounded him deeply. He is too young to bear such a burden. I must finish my tasks quickly and comfort him, before Lord Alexis's falsehoods prove too alluring.

The footmen regard me with only the barest of glances, as I lay out the plates, linen, and glasses. Only the silverware remains to be carried up, and the narrow servant's staircase affords me the luxury of not being seen by Lord Neil, whom I believe to be rather wary of my presence: I must re-assure him of my worth and loyalty. I methodically count out the silverware, grateful for the monotony of routine to remove my mind from its more troubling thoughts.

("To go back to how it was." Where those not Lord Cain's direct wishes? I owe it to that boy, to ensure that some peace and happiness finds him.)

When I return to the dining room, however, the silver in my hand crashes to the ground, loudly announcing my presence. Forks, knives, and spoons spill across the patterned floor.

To my horror, my left hand twitches of its own accord.

* * *

 **Author's notes:**

So, I don't know about you, but I'm looking forward to the next chapter.  
Also, does it feel like the chapters are getting longer? I think so.  
Thank you for continuing to read. Your continued interest and feedback encourage me. Let me know what you thought, if you'd like!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes:**

This is probably the chapter in which you clearly see all the influences of what I've read and watched lately. I regret nothing, folks. It's a labor of love. And suffering. Always suffering.

Also, I would like to warn you lovely readers about the rather graphic description of eye and head violence in Riff's section of this chapter. It's present for the entire section, in almost all the italicized, parenthetical asides.

* * *

 _Riff_

I cannot believe the sight before me. My left hand shudders and twitches, like the tongue of a serpent tasting the air.

( _Did you think I would be vanquished so easily_?)

Seizing my wrist, I quickly assure myself that no one has seen my situation. I wait, heart thundering, as a maid passes, arms loaded with laundered bedsheets. She gives me a disapproving sniff, thinking she has caught me being idle when I ought to be industrious.

( _I'll wring his neck for you, I swear it. Don't you know the way—_ )

Taking the silverware into my good hand, I try to resume my task singlehandedly, ignoring my left hand as it continues to twitch. I will not give him the satisfaction of panic.

Four forks, in order of increasing size.

(— _the veins will protrude and his eyes, those arrogant eyes, will—)_

Two knives. Two spoons, the smaller on the outside.

Repeat.

 _(—roll up in that delicate skull. Then I'll break open that skull with a twist of my thumbs! Right into the soft plums of his eyes! Imagine the carnage!_ )

With every last bit of will I possess, I shut him away: you are nought but a ghost, I tell him. And you shan't harm Lord Cain while I've breath in my body. In our mind, I hold him underwater, as he writhes and his screams become large, unceasing bubbles. I do not waver from my task even as he shows me his promises for the future should he win: my Lord with blood staining his ruined eyes, bones protruding from his back like wings. Fortune is with me this time, for he finally retreats to wait, knowing that I will inevitably grow weaker in body as time progresses.

Gasping, I collapse to my knees, sweat upon my brow. He has seceded control of my left hand to me again, but he has been growing in strength; the time spent free has hardened him, and I fear our next encounter. I look in the direction of Lord Cain's rooms, gathering resolve around me like a blanket.

I must be strong for him.

Who else will be? He cannot carry the weight of this cursed house alone.

* * *

With a nervous heart, I brush down my coat before knocking on the door to Lord Cain's room. it may have escaped Lord Neil, but my Lord had a distinctly worried look under his facade of refined intrigue at supper.

At his muffled word, I enter, and what I see fractures my heart: amid the crackling fires, my Lord sits in a slump on his bed, white tie undone and proper posture abandoned. I kneel before him, to take him into my arms.

"I am truly my father's son."

"You are not, my Lord."

( _Break his neck, lapdog_.)

I stiffen myself against this suggestion, presenting an unwavering image of loyalty and devotion to my Lord.

Lord Cain searches my face. He furrows his brows momentarily, as if to reassure himself of something, and softens.

"I fear you see something in me that is not there, Riff." He breaks away from my embrace, and there are tears in his eyes. "I have changed, Riff. Last night, I dreamt that I was there with Father again, and instead of choosing Cassian, he chose me to—" He takes his head into his hands. "I am afraid, Riff. I am afraid of the day that Uncle Neil will remember that I killed Aunt Augusta, that the Doctor will not help us, that Father will return somehow—" His voice breaks. "All though supper with Uncle Neil, I felt as though I was simply an actor onstage. Take this, eat this, drink that. Smile. Make a quip. Repeat."

"My Lord." I brush away some of the wanton hair that has fallen across his face. "Lord Alexis is truly dead; I swear it to you. Lord Neil loves you like his own son." I pause in thought. "And as for the Doctor, he has helped me once before, so why not again?"

Lord Cain gives me a deeply wounded look, and his lips twist as if on the brink of a confession.

"Because I-I..." He takes a breath to steady himself. "Remember how I asked you to call for Doctor Muir from the village? When I bandaged up the Doctor's wound, I thought it must have become infected—the area around it was raised and red."

"My Lord, I wish you had let me." I clasp his hands. "That is my work, not yours."

"I felt guilty." The words fell out quickly, and for a moment, my Lord looks as if he wants to take them back. "Can you imagine an infection at that site? A site with exposed brain tissue? But he wouldn't let Doctor Muir take a look at it."

My heart sinks. I can surmise the outcome easily. "My Lord, you made the right choice."

"It was a violent choice!"

"My Lord, you did it out of love."

His eyes have an ancient, worn look to them, as if he has aged terribly in the span of time since I left. "Love, Riff? Like Father's love?"

"It is not the same."

"Don't you see? I have ruined everything. If he is angry with me, I can hardly blame him."

"You may have prevented a terrible outcome. It had to be done. I only wish you had left the task to me."

Lord Cain puts his slender, cold hand to my face.

( _Break his wrist! Hear the bones bend beneath you._ )

"If I fail in my endeavor, then I will _never_ see you again." His anguish quickens his speech. "You will become dust, and no matter what I try, I will never be able to find you, because you don't have a—" He draws his hand away, a pained expression on his face.

His unfinished statement resounds in my ears. I had never considered the possibility that I, as a created personality, may not even possess a soul.

( _You don't, bodysnatcher._ )

"But tomorrow Lord and Lady Bracknell are due a magnificent performance." He smiles weakly, as his lower lip trembles. "Is that not how it is done around here? Preserve the family reputation at all costs?"

To my shame, I can say nothing reassuring to this child, and so I help him out of his evening wear. Only the soft clink of the cuff links being unclasped breaks the silence. I sort his clothes for the wash: the coat and trousers can stand another wearing, while the shirt and undershirt are due for a wash.

As he moves to settle under the covers, my left hand makes a grab for him—and narrowly misses, closing on the air. Shaking, I put out the light; I then seize my wrist again, my heart rattling. I hardly dare to speak now, for fear that he shall speak with my voice.

"Goodnight, Riff."

"Goodnight, my Lord." I make certain to keep any quivering out of my tone. He must not know. It would drive him to the depths of madness if he knew.

You shan't harm him while I've breath in my body, I remind Riffael.

And deep within my body, he grins.

* * *

 _Jezabel_

I hardly care what time it is now. Sedge warblers alternate between staccato joy and petulant scoldings. I numbly examine the sizable bruise on my hand, and I do not marvel at the beginnings of its pied beauty, not this time. It merely seems ugly now. A reflection of myself on this body that is—and is not—mine.

 _I am on Cassandra's bed, listening to the heavy door close behind him. I do not move from where he left me. I have read of women who go mad after such an act, shrieking and babbling and throwing around flowers, but I, I just remain motionless, because I cannot separate his sins from mine. There is something viscous traveling down my thighs; knowing its name, I do not examine it, instead willing time to pass me by, like Snow White in her coffin. (To name it is to acknowledge it, and that I cannot bear.)_

 _He has left handfuls of forget-me-nots on my hips, which within the passing of a few days will wilt—and yet I doubt the knowledge of what we have done will fade so easily._

 _I stare and stare beyond the lace curtains until I have dissipated entirely, like foam upon the floor._

 _Wondering which one of us has eaten of the fruit of the knowledge of good and evil._

I briefly entertain the thought of opening the window, and under the night sky, finally letting God decide my fate. The blankets slide off me, like a second skin, as I walk to the window entranced by its promises. The linen curtains part easily in my hands, as does the latch. (Won't Father be proud that I lived up to my namesake.) And the sky—the emptiness of the sky!—greets me as an old friend. How many nights have I spent awake, just observing the stars. As I watch, momentarily distracted from my task, more and more stars reveal themselves to me, shyly. Then I bend my arm, and the resistance from the gauze reminds me of what has transpired.

The night is black with guilt. In the distance, red marks the bounds of the universe, as it does everything else. If I hold my hand out to the sky, I can almost touch Father's hair again. I bolt from the window in an unspeakable anger, and my gaze falls to the scissors left carelessly behind.

 _Such lovely hair you have, dearest Jezabel._

In some perverse twist of fate, I am there again with Cassandra, as he kisses my hair and revels in my attempts to remain emotionless. Trembling in fear and rage, I seize part of my hair and hack it off. I hate this body, as I have never hated anything before.

 _It's like aged ivory. Beautiful._

Clumps of hair spill onto my lap. It cannot be ruined quickly enough, I find.

 _You look exactly like your mother._

Like the straw the miller's daughter had to spin into gold, my hair now lines the floor, both loose and in bales. And for a moment, I don't know whose hair I am destroying—Mother's or mine. A strange lightness reaches me, now the weight of my hair is gone.

 _How did she die again?_

I reach the part Father cut, and I grip it so tightly that it surrenders blood-tipped strands. I sever the remainder and run my hands through my ruined hair. Guilt, coiling and burning in my body, sends me to the floor, and clutching myself, I feel the hardness of my bones. My cage. The bridge of skin between my ribs begs to be pierced and peeled off, so that all the lives I have consumed can finally be free.

Only the crunching of gravel stills my hand, and a terrible curiosity arises in my heart as I return, lightheaded, to the window. Beyond the pine trees, the sky lightens—and my heart stills at the sight of a figure on the winding gravel paths, moving towards the mansion. Hope, that feathered, bedraggled whore, stirs, as I lean out the window to gain a better glimpse of the bicyclist. Dark hair, medium build. The morning light is far too faint to determine his hair color from this distance.

(I am unsure just whom I am desperately hoping to see.)

He waits at the narrow entrance—probably the servant's entryway—but the daily newspaper in his hands crushes that feathered wretch in my heart.

I tear myself from the window in a fit of anger. How nonsensical and soft I am becoming! To mistake the paperboy for a-a what? A corpse? A phantom? My Frankenstein is dead under twenty feet of hubris and the endeavors of a fool. A fool who never saw my devotion to him, who could never tear his ear away from his dearest Delilah.

I slam the window shut, so that the glass trembles in its frame, and wrench the curtains closed again.

Under the blankets, I curl slowly, slowly on myself.

* * *

 _Cain_

In the sun room, Uncle Neil peruses the newspaper, the ink of which one of the footmen has ironed dry. As I enter, he nods in acknowledgement of my presence. Today's fare is simple: sausage, toast, bacon, fresh rolls, and boiled eggs.

I help myself to some buttered toast and a boiled egg for starters.

"The work has begun on excavating your father's site for survivors. It collapsed soon after you returned." He smiled grimly. " _The Times_ is calling for a review of the structure. I must confess, Alexis was never much of an architect."

With the egg spoon, I crack open the top third of the egg; the spoon shakes in my hand. "Father is dead. I watched him die."

Uncle Neil gives me another of his long, hard looks. "Are you certain?"

"He is," I insist, only half-believing my words this time.

The clanking of silverware on porcelain fills the silence between us for several minutes, before he speaks again.

"I have had a talk with Doctor Muir from the village."

My butter knife stops cold in its task. This was not how I had hoped to start my day. "Have you?" I manage after several moments.

Uncle Neil chooses his next words carefully. "We have come to a decision." He pauses. "You neglected to tell me the part where your brother is stark-raving mad."

"Not stark-raving," I counter.

"You cannot save everyone, Cain." There's a certain sadness in his eyes that I cannot bear to witness.

His words sting, and I can hear Father again: _You can't save anyone, Cain._

I try to utter a response, but can find nothing—Father is above me, wringing his whip. ( _And it came about when they were in the field, that Cain rose up against Abel and killed him. Then the Lord said to Cain, "Where is Abel, your brother?" And he said, "I do not know. Am I my brother's keeper?"_ )

"I tried the same thing, after you were born and your Aunt Augusta went mad. Her hair turns white, and she would not let anyone near her afterwards. I tried to reason with her, tried to acclimate her back to the house. She could not do it, and in the end—" He stops to collect himself suddenly. "In the end, I realized that nothing could bring her back. It was the kindest thing I could do for her, to sign the papers."

"No." I don't want to hear about Aunt Augusta again. Those motherly hands, faintly smelling of floral lotion. ( _Where are your horns and tail, little devil._ ) I set my butter knife down, unable to control its movements, as the blood drains from my face. How dare I forget that I am the calamity child. The cursed child who can save no one. Not even himself.

Uncle Neil watches me closely. "Forgive me. I've said too much."

I rise from my place at the table, biting back a dozen retorts. "Please excuse my absence," I say coldly. I toss the napkin onto my plate, and leave the room as quickly as I can.

As I walk to the Doctor's rooms , I notice Mary in the garden, staring at one of the hollyhocks intently.

I call to her. Hesitantly, she divides her attention between me and the flowers, as her little hands twist on her sailor dress in worry. Brushing it off as merely a strange occurrence, I quickly resume my path, with the fastest pace I can manage without breaking into a run.

Mikaila returns to dust before my eyes. Mary sobs and sobs, clutching Michaela's lavender ribbon like a talisman.

 _You can't save anyone, Cain._

Emile throws himself to his death. The earth cracks his head open like ripe fruit.

 _You can't save anyone, Cain._

Dirk burns alive with his sister; there's the putrid smell of seared flesh that lingers in my clothes afterwards.

 _You can't save—_

I fear it is too late for all of us.

* * *

 **Notes:**

I hope you didn't think Riffael or, as I have nicknamed him in my outline, "Evil Riff" would go away so easily, as he appeared to in the fourth chapter. In a way, this is also my critique of how easily Evil Riff seemed to be vanquished by the Power of Love in canon. It's not that that scene doesn't bring tears to my eyes every time I read it, it's that I think it was a little too neat.  
Or maybe I just like making characters suffer. Take your pick.

Wow, I can't believe it's halfway done now.  
I know I put this at the end of all my works, but I sincerely mean it each time:  
Thank you for taking the time to read my piece. I'm humbled every time. I'm very grateful for my readers and their continued interest. Let me know what you thought, if you'd like!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes:**

So, so much angst in this chapter, lovely readers. But no warnings beyond the usual. I've been looking forward to writing this scene for a while now, so I really hope you enjoy it! (Well, this, and the ending.)

* * *

 _Cain_

As I move to open the door to the Doctor's room, a maid leaves it, her face pale and dustpan in hand. My heart sinks. I dread the knowledge of what the Doctor has done now.

Relief returns to me, as—far from being painted in blood and draped in intestines—his room is largely as I remember it. A little cold, perhaps, but nothing that the sun wouldn't warm soon. A breakfast tray sits untouched, and red asters have replaced the fainting carnations—and to my shock, I notice that he has cut off the majority of his hair. Instead of being waist-length, it now curls around his shoulders. Well, that I can handle. I am vexed with myself for overlooking the scissors when I left, but what's done is done.

His gaze is fixed on the pastoral painting. I had hoped he would like it, but his gaze is one of hard contemplation—not enjoyment.

I start light. "Are you feeling better, Doctor?"

He completely ignores the question. "I suppose you chose that to remind me of all I have lost."

This abrupt accusation shocks me momentarily, before I remember that he has spent his life around Father, whose favorite pastime was reminding one of the past through subtle gestures, which were not unlike paper cuts. "Nonsense. I chose your room for its view: it overlooks the garden, and I thought you'd enjoy that. The gardeners have worked hard on the flowers this year."

He gives a little, stiff shake of his head to indicate his disbelief.

I carry on, despite my reluctance. "Perhaps you'd like to see it, later?"

For my attempt at small talk, I receive only a cold stare.

"Are you upset with me?" I ask, knowing the answer.

He looks as if he wants to say something, but decides against it, in favor of a sullen silence.

I pull up a chair. "I'm sorry about your hand. It looks painful."

That seems to do the trick.

"Does it? It hardly registers over the two times you drugged me." His tone is icily calm.

Fear returns to my heart, but I refuse to let it show. "Well, it's a family tradition, I suppose."

He cannot seem to think of a proper retort, and so silence falls upon us again. Shadows move across the closed curtains—the sway of branches, the sharp flight of birds.

Being a fool at heart, I resume the conversation. "Doctor Muir advised that you ought to get some fresh air and put on a little weight. He says that you'll have a scar, but you do not have any of the symptoms of a successful leucotomy."

He stifles an unkind laugh; I suspect he had figured that much. "I suppose you had a nice talk with him about shutting me away in an asylum."

"No, I did not. But Uncle Neil did."

His hands tighten on the covers, and there is a dangerous pause. "Has he?"

The lightness leaves my voice, as I continue, in favor of a quiet, even tone. "Uncle Neil does not believe you can ever recover. He thinks that Father has irreparably harmed you, and wants to consign you to the same asylum Aunt Augusta died in. He sees her decline in you."

He frowns slightly, as he processes this revelation.

"But I don't believe that about you—"

"—because you need me to save your lapdog," he interjects, bitterly. "How noble of you. I am yours to use and discard at will."

"I don't use and discard people," I counter. "I am not Father."

"Of course not. Father's dead because of you."

"I had no hand in that, Doctor. You killed him. And the world's better for it. Even you must understand that."

"He was all I knew. And you saw fit to _manipulate_ me into helping you—" He cuts off, shaking his head. "I wish I had never listened to you. It would have been better if it had just ended there. For both of us." Unconsciously, his hand touches the gauze on his head wound. "You took everyone away from me."

"Cassian went there willingly. And he went there _for you_." I pause. "But things are different now."

He gives me a hard look, and I remember the depths of hatred this man has for me. I believe I have truly made a bargain with the devil.

"Certainly, circumstances have changed," he replies in a soft, dangerous tone. "It's your turn to use me. Mother sacrificed me to maintain her delusion, Father molded me to serve his phantom, and you? You want me to keep your fantasy alive, no matter the cost. Is that not the choice you are giving me, in all your generosity? Your dream or the asylum?"

"No, I—" I had not meant it like that.

"—Do you not think I understand how this works? I've studied medicine for longer than you've been out of swaddling clothes. It requires two signatures to consign a patient to the asylum, eight to release them." He shakes his head again, a definite note of anger in his voice now. "You're always preaching about leaving the past behind, but has it ever occurred to you, in your infinite wisdom, that some memories won't let themselves be forgotten?" For a moment, horror registers under the anger. "That they live in the present as much as if they were of flesh and blood?"

"Do you not think I know that, Jezabel? I visit Father and his damnable whip every night." My voice is louder than I intended it to be. "I cannot look in a mirror without being reminded of what he wrought. I wear the face of the monster who whipped me every night! For the audacity to be born!" I collect myself with a shaky breath. I had not meant to yell. "Don't you think I have not wished some nights that the midwife had just smothered me instead? Like the family wanted?"

I take in the way he has paled considerably, and a deep shame comes over me. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have. I shouldn't have yelled." The words fall stiff, and my chest tightens from the uncomfortable feeling of apologizing, but I refuse to be the one to continue our feud.

He watches me warily, clearly unsure of what to make of my apology, and I wonder if this is the first time someone has apologized for their actions towards him. Something akin to pity returns to my heart. I can remember what it was like to second-guess every show of affection that came from outside Riff—my Atlas. The man with my world on his shoulders.

Before I can think, the rest of the words spill out. "I'm well aware you're angry with me for drugging you. It was wrong of me. I knew it when I saw how frightened you were, I knew it when I went back to my rooms." I knew it when I realized that I would not have let him take such an action towards Mary. I wondered that night how much of Father was still inside me, slowly rotting my mind. I told myself that I did it out of kindness, but that was not the complete reason: I hadn't the faintest idea of how to deal with his episodes, and I mistook fear for petulance. It was not until I had finished that I realized that he had been reliving something awful—and that I, in all my haste and desperation, had had a hand in it.

I make sure to catch his gaze. "And I give you my word as a gentleman that it shan't happen again."

Under his ever-present suspicion, there is hesitation.

We wait. Mary runs past the rooms, her little strapped flats hitting the floor. "Oh, Riff, do tell Miss Pritchett, I don't want to do arithmetic today! All the songbirds are out, and oh! Look!"

Riff's gentle reassurance is lost to us, but it gladdens me that she has not maintained her guard against him.

I pick at the stitches of my coat—a dreadful habit that Riff has never succeeded in ridding me of—before I continue. "Maybe you were a victim in the past, but circumstances have changed now. Out of everyone in this house, you possess the most power. And only you—and you alone—can say how it will all end. For both of us. You need to make a decision: who's right after all? Is Father right about us? Are we sinners? Cursed children, driven from the Garden? Or was he wrong about us? Was he wrong about you?" I pause. "Whatever you decide, you must make it soon. Riff is dying, and if he dies, he is lost forever to me. I cannot call a medium to channel a soul that does not exist."

His hesitation has evaporated in favor of a cold, even stare that indicates that I have lost ground in gaining his cooperation. It occurs to me that I have to offer something valuable as collateral, and a reckless, foolhardy idea arises.

I fumble in my coat pockets, before producing it. A plain, worn key. "This is the key to my rooms. Only Riff has the other. My rooms are third from the main staircase, left of the Waterhouse painting." I pause. "Take my eyes if that is what will let you trust me. Take my life if you think it suitable compensation." I set it on the side table, more bravely than I feel. I am feverishly praying that I will not wake up blind tomorrow. Or worse. "I shan't lie: I'm frightened of you. But I have made the choice to trust you. And it _is_ a choice. If you do decide to kill me, the only thing I ask is that you keep Mary and Uncle Neil out of your plans. This is between us."

I crouch down so that he and I are at eye-level. Warily, he crosses his arms and turns slightly away from me.

"I need you to trust me. And I appreciate that this is probably the hardest choice you will ever have to make. Because it is not something to be done once and forgotten; trust is a choice you will have to make every day. I am not Father, no matter how much I resemble him. I do not have some nefarious plan for you. And you are not that twelve-year-old anymore, no matter how much you think time has frozen since."

Neither one of us break the ensuing silence. He maintains a steady stare, but the way he crosses his arms more tightly indicates that my words have had an effect. We remain like this, in this uneasy state, for several minutes before I rise to my feet.

I pause at the door, hand on the door frame. I bite my lip, reluctant to bring up this particular topic, but I suspect it is my ace in the hole. Ordinarily, I would understand that it will take months or even years for him to trust me or any human being, and I am ashamed of my willingness to use—a cynic would say exploit—another man's death to save Riff, but time is my adversary. Michaela died within a week, despite the best efforts of a physician and myself, and three days have already passed. Riff does not think I see the way he pales periodically, does not think I hear reports of his fainting in the kitchens, nor that I see the way his skin has taken on a sickly tint, as if it has already begun to decay. In some ways, he thinks me still that lost boy, incapable of protecting himself or others.

I take a breath to steady myself.

"I may never know what occurred with you, Cassian, and Lord Gladstone, but I do know that Cassian thought you were worth dying for." The words fall faster than I can sort them out. "Even when he was being tortured, _you_ were what he thought about. And he didn't want you to forget that he loved you. And maybe this is my way of making up for his death. I swear to you, I never meant for any of that to happen."

This shocks him more than any of my other words. It reminds me of how, when he was telling me about his pet lamb, a terrible sadness moved under the opaqueness of his gaze.

And now I truly know what compelled me to bring him here. At the very heart of the fear and guilt was a need for reconciliation, to close that door behind us. Because I cannot let the past continue to define me. We are bound together by Father's blood, by Father's cause, by Father's will. And from the very beginning, Father drove us apart, because it made us easier to manipulate. Maybe this is my final gesture of defiance towards him—that I, unlike my namesake, am not a brother-killer. That I will take back what should have been mine—ours—in the first place, had he not a thousand plans and a thousand strings.

"But I think Cassian was wrong to try to save you against your wishes. You'd have resented him for it. For taking you away from Father. Only you can make the decision to be saved." I hesitate. "And maybe in the end, it's less of being saved, than it is acceptance."

I cannot bear to hear his answer, and from his shocked expression, I doubt he has one ready. In fact, he looks as if he cannot decide whether to rage or cry, and I realize that, in my desperation, I have pushed too hard. As I hurry away, it occurs to me that, for all his declarations to the contrary, I am not Father's masterpiece. Father's greatest work is the man he crafted entirely of broken glass.

How painful an existence that must be.

* * *

 **Notes:**

What can I say except that I have been looking forward to writing a reconciliation scene for weeks now, especially since in canon, it was what, a page? A devastating, delicate page that I cry over, but still a page. Don't get me wrong, I love that we actually got a reconciliation page in canon, but I wish it had been longer. And so, this is what I imagine it would be like: stiff, awkward, but hopeful underneath it all.

My eternal thanks and gratitude to my readers. I keep repeating myself, but I mean it every time. I'm really humbled. Comments are always appreciated. I love to hear from readers!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes:**

Wow, we are nearing the end. Two thirds done. My gosh.

* * *

"She had begun to wonder why she had never seemed to belong to any one even when her father and mother had been alive. Other children seemed to belong to their fathers and mothers, but she had never seemed to really be any one's little girl. She had had servants, and food and clothes, but no one had taken any notice of her."

—Frances Hodgson Burnett, _The Secret Garden_

* * *

 _Jezabel_

I can hardly breathe when Cain abandons me to the aftereffects of his careless words. How dare he—the privileged, entitled, coddled heir who has Father's title and Father's face—speak to me about choices. How dare he so blithely remind me of all the lives that I have consumed, knowing, as I know, that what I've done cannot be forgiven.

I contemplate taking out my rage on his unconscious form later: with merely three incisions, his body will yield its slippery hoard, like the glistening innards of a pomegranate. To cradle his viscera, to handle that shuddering dove of a heart as it sighs, seems almost a transcendent experience. To finally own those terrible eyes, far more of his mark of Cain than his scars ever were. Yet, now that the only man who would care about such a transgression lies dead, I no longer desire his eyes. As always, Fate favors Cain.

Brother dearest does not understand that we are damned to repeat cycles: in the hundreds of bodies I have desecrated, I see only that nameless stranger who so kindly initiated me with his intestines, and I wonder, not for the first time, if each time Cain dispenses "justice" with his poisons, it is as though he is murdering Father again. Only fools deny the influence of the past. It defines us, shapes us, and cages us. I have surrendered to its pull, its refusal to depart quietly into the night. I have never forgotten, because it has never allowed me to forget. Yet, his confession haunts me to a degree I had not anticipated: in all my self-absorption, I had never considered that he might have longed sometimes for an early death as an infant. I ponder this a while. If he had been smothered, then I would have—no. I know now what I did not know all those years ago; despite his sweet words, the family would never have stood for a bastard to inherit Father's title and estate.

I hesitate at the key again. He could be attempting to mislead, to test me, but the fear in his eyes gives me pause. A false key would not inspire so much anguish. This leaves a final conclusion: he is so desperate that he considers me a lesser threat than his butler's passing. How curious, I had never bothered to consider whether or not an artificial personality possesses a soul. I suppose not. What a pity that brother dearest has to suffer the losses of life that come to us all in the end.

(How inhumane of Father to create a sentient being that will cease to exist after death—no judgment to be received, no lingering like Father's phantom, no hope of communication, not even a dream of reincarnation, whether in one's original flesh or not. The Biblical teachings are quite ambiguous about reincarnation; it seems too cruel to experience all of life's slings and arrows in its endless variation, or even worse in a Eternal Return, where one's life is repeated perfectly. I could not bear to repeat my life again, for the rest of eternity; that seems a worse fate than hell.)

Cain should have known that it is foolish to try to persuade me with sweet words: I have been shaped by hands more skilled than his, and I know what I am—and what awaits me beyond the pale. Nothing remains for me here: not Mother, not Father, not even—I cannot finish that thought. I would rather face ceaseless hell fire than the implications of that treachery. Cain spoke of my being saved, but I have never labored under any delusions about my nature. I am an unrepentant sinner, a proficient liar, a bastard, a father-killer, a murderer.

What I have done cannot be forgiven.

And I know, at last, what is to transpire. Far from the maddening chaos that periodically invades my blood, this knowledge, in its strange finality, brings me peace. A final sin. A final judgement. An eternity of hell fire. (And is it not easier, in the end, to go to what one has always known?) The joys of having studied medicine is that one knows what is lethal, what is superficial, and what is painful. A range of options present themselves: of course, the traditional severance of the jugular, the radial, or even the fermoral, if I felt so inclined. However, a merciful death fails to capture my interest, as my sins clamor for _a good show_.

Nothing less than evisceration shall suffice—as my life began with it, so shall it end.

And the cycle repeats.

( _I... love you._

Was Father truly grateful that I, in my cowardice, liberated him from Augusta's ramblings? I had taken it for forgiveness at the time, but now, having been claimed by death, I suspect otherwise. How pleasant to lay down one's cause, in favor of a certainty.)

As I carefully rotate the scissors in my hands, the blades distort reflections of the pastoral painting. The Virgin and the lamb. God never allowed Abel to leave the Garden; only Cain departed, marked. Abel obeyed God's word, only to be struck down by Cain. ( _Then the Lord said to Cain, "Where is Abel, your brother?" He said, "I do not know; am I my brother's keeper?" And the Lord said, "What have you done? The voice of your brother's blood is crying to me from the ground._ ) Abel, your brother. Is that my fate? To be defined by my brother? I have spent my life defining myself by him: faithful where he is wayward, imprisoned where he is free, dependent where he is self-reliant.

It occurs to me that this is my attempt to claim this body as my own, even as I cast it aside. This worthless, ugly, sickly, frail, dying body. This body that Father maimed and reshaped, this body that Cassandra desecrated, this body that Cassian protected. That Mother, in all her folly, disguised, and that I abandoned, unsuccessfully, far too many years ago. That Snark loved. That I knowingly endangered, because suicide is a sin and being murdered is not. (Even if one has to coax the executioner.) The body that I exploited, because neither Meridiana nor I knew that physical sensations alone cannot suffice as bonds—neither as the control I sought to replicate, nor the devotion she thought she longed for.

I have tried to forget in the border between thought and nothingness, but this body has always remembered what happened to it.

From the beginning, it has been my enemy, and yet the part of me I cannot so easily shed. For its sins, I tried to starve it into silence, by carefully allotting myself only one daily meal, and I took my rage and grief onto it, as the thin scars on the insides of my hands can attest. And I mutilated the bodies of women, to re-enact the cycle I could never bring myself to escape: the charmer, the immaculate illusion of adoration, who leaves only blood and terror behind. Their naivety and innocence angered me, in that it reminded me of how I had been irrevocably changed. (But Father abandoned his act years ago; he had no need to pretend when I was willing to destroy anything, anyone for his attention. Especially myself.)

Ordinarily, I would strive for a clean incision, but neatness hold no appeal for me now: I need to tear this sin-ridden body into the pieces it has been left in. My final offering to the God who cannot forgive me. And I no longer know which God I allude to: the Holy Father or the God of my childhood. My thought has fled in anticipation of the brief nothingness that will follow my final sin, and I undo the buttons of my vest and then my shirt; how fitting that my offering should be one of flesh, particularly as Abel offered one of his lambs as a burnt sacrifice. Father would like that, I think.

My hands have thoroughly warmed the scissors by now. I place them against the hollow of my chest, between the wings of my ribcage, and as I plunge them—

 _Cassian grimaces against the hole in his back, lips tight against the pain._

 _Before I can register that it is his body which has stood in front of death's charge, he subdues Cassandra before he murders the both of us in his fury. The fury that I provoked, seeing a common goal in his murderous anger. In my sudden shame, I can hardly bear to face Cassian._

 _Only the creases around his eyes betray the agony he must be in, as he tries to comfort me with his dying breath. Forgiving me my weakness. His childish hand shakes from his death-throes, but his gaze is fixated on my lost look, and truly, I am lost and confused. I had not expected this from anyone, to cast their life aside for mine. With a laborious intake of breath, he brushes aside the wayward strands of my hair, leaving an indelible stain on my skin with his blood. I cannot find solace in this death, only panic._

 _No one has offered me the genuine concern that he shows me, not in the least because I have never allowed anyone to. I belong to Father, and Father alone._

 _His life for mine is not a fair exchange._

I gasp from shock. Only the faintest of pain registers, as my hand has stilled, and I have merely scraped my skin. Despite the blade's presence, I cannot help but smile. Even in death, he still chases after me, to fall between death and I. So typical of him.

( _"Just call me."_ )

And for a moment, I see _him_. Leaning against the windowsill, he lowers a cigarette grumpily.

I open my mouth to speak, but he vanishes. I am left alone again.

"Cassian?" I try again, unused to the melancholy in my voice.

Only the rustle of the curtains answers me.

How pathetic. To seek solace from a phantom, a mere disruption in one's consciousness. For some reason, this acknowledgement of my loneliness pains me. Snark had always kept me from this realization, and after that, I drowned in my boundless rage that splintered into its myriad forms, leaving no aspect of my life unscathed. Something akin to regret stirs in me. If I had not been so distrustful, everything might have ended differently. We might have escaped, the two of us. I shut the thought away: I only understand when it is far too late, and now I will never know what could have been. Still, that starved shadow lurks at the very edge of my heart.

I hesitate.

Cain spoke of having to decide to trust every day, but the first decision is the one that cannot be taken back. It leaves one vulnerable. My gaze falls to the scissors, now docile in my hand, and I realized that my heart has made my choice. It appears to me that the only action left, if I have denied death, is to put my faith in him, that he will not use and discard me after he has what he wants.

The asters remind me that summer has come to England. Summer brings roe deer, hedgehogs, wild raspberries—and the anniversary of Snark's death. I used to believe that I had died along with him, but Cassian showed me I was wrong. In his death and resurrection, I glimpsed the endless possibilities if I could just dare to claim them, to step outside the cage—and I drew back in cowardice. Told myself that Father set the bounds of my world. No matter how desperately I willed myself to perform one final injection, I could not extinguish the breath that I had restored, even if it was on Father's orders. I lay there, shaking, next to his convalescent bed, angry at my weakness and afraid of what I had wrought. At some point, my heart had decided against its owner, and I realized that, far from being trapped within a cage, I had imprisoned _myself,_ because a life without choices, without will, seemed less terrifying: if I could not make choices, then I could not make the wrong choice.

( _"Just call me if you ever want to get out of that pitch-black cage."_ )

And I reach for him in the ceaseless darkness, as I have done before. This time, however, it is not borne of desperation and fear, but a decision to leave the corpses I have spent too many years on. As much as it pains me, Cain was right: I would have despised him for daring to separate me from all I have known. As I have despised Cain.

For the first time in years, I become conscious of how time has condensed years of fear, jealousy, and anger into a stone in my gut. As soon as the sensation registers, I abandon it: I cannot bear that. Anything but that. I am afraid of what I have decided, for I know truly that I cannot bear another betrayal.

To indulge my brother in one last fantasy of his might be the height of foolishness, not mention a path that will return us to blood and death, but perhaps it is all I can do. And I desperately hope he has not inherited Father's penchant towards sweet deception. The smile before the axe falls. Even now, I am still uncertain how I feel about Father. He was the entirety of my world, and my life was at his disposal, because he had already drained it of all that was dear. And yet, I still treasure the smile he bestowed upon me as a child for each of his visits. Entranced by it, I always forgot about my loneliness. Perhaps in all my foolish devotion, I have been merely hoping to see that smile again—the smile that let me forget that I am the unwanted son.

Am I truly different than that twelve-year-old? Have I changed?

Far from the warmth and relief I had imagined it would be, trust evokes an uncomfortable sensation, not dissimilar to falling.

* * *

 **Notes:**

As I was planning this story, I noticed just how body-focused Jezabel's story line is, and I realized that that would be the focus of his conflict, even if he doesn't outright name it as such. Which is why I made some of the more grisly choices in this story, for those of you wondering why this story so quickly introduces torture. I should note that this chapter is very much indebted to the brilliant _The Body keeps the Score_.

Also, did you notice the change in address for both brothers?

As always, I am humbled by the continued interest of my readers and reviewers. Thank you for reading this far. I always appreciate feedback from readers, so don't be shy! I'd love to hear from you.


	9. Chapter 9

I need to stop reading Clamp. Tokyo Babylon just messed me up, and now I can pass that suffering onto you, dear readers.  
Also, here's your warning for another gruesome scene. Relevant section is "He recoils from..." to "NO!" I hardly care".

* * *

 _Cain_

As soon as I can excuse myself, I retire to the library to pour over Riff's medical textbooks—as I have done every day since I learned of his condition—in the hopes of finding something, anything relevant. Buchan's _Domestic Medicine_ yields nothing of interest _,_ and as I move to retrieve _Therapeutics of the Serpent Poisons_ , I notice Jezabel near the grandfather clock, arms crossed. Instinct tells me to wait. Past experience tells me to reach for my revolver. Against common sense, I do nothing, fully aware that I have made a fatal error in judgement.

The clock parcels out time in increments, as we stare at each other, neither one of us willing to begin the conversation. I have almost resigned myself to pretending to return to my text, all the while hoping that my throat remains intact, when he shifts slightly.

"I'll help you," he says, with enough stiffness to match my own reserve.

I hardly dare to break the silence; this seems unreal, somehow. Riff will remain with me, in spite of everything. Mary will be spared another loss in her young life. That one remainder of my childhood will remain intact and unspoiled.

"Thank you," I manage.

He turns his gaze away from me, scowling at the wall in response. Hardly the joyful reconciliation I had wished for, but that sort of thing only happens in fairy stories. Perhaps there is too much between us for that to be a possibility. The thought pains me. The past cannot be so easily rectified, it seems.

With a nod, I lead him below stairs to the servants quarters. A few maids startle to see the lord of the house among them, but I pay them no heed. After Father's departure, Riff had insisted on remaining below stairs, on account of propriety and tradition and all the things I care not for. He has a spacious sleeping quarters as head butler, although it pales in comparison to even Mary's nursery. I do not bother with knocking, and we find him resting under his plain covers. I fear the worst: it is still too early for him to be contemplating sleep; he must have weakened considerably.

Under Riff's warm smile, there is embarrassment at being seen in such a state. At the sight of my brother, he hesitates, yet remains silent, too polite to ask the question on his mind.

"It's quite alright, Riff. Jezabel is here to look at you, and get you feeling better."

"Of course, my lord." Only Riff's worried eyes betray his meek demeanor.

Keeping his arms crossed, Jezabel maintains a slight shift away from me, as he moves closer to Riff.

"I can have the cow slaughtered tonight if need be," I add.

"Cow?" Distaste pulls at Jezabel's lips, and with a sinking heart, I remember hearing how he cherished the animals of the forest.

"Its blood can serve as a substitute for..." I find myself suddenly hesitant to name the process by which Riff must be maintained.

"Beyond the ethical ramifications of using _an animal,_ cow's blood requires processing before it can be used." Jezabel shakes his head in frustration. "Unless you do have a machine capable of such a task, stashed away with the linen."

Despite these setbacks, I refuse to abandon my plans, to abandon Riff. "Then I will have a machine built. Tell me the parts that must be ordered, and I will have them sent to one of my properties."

"It's hardly that simple."Jezabel gives Riff a cursory glance. "And he requires a new liver within the week."

"How can you tell?" I knew he was an exemplary physician, but such a deduction seems more akin to something out of a Conan Doyle novel.

"The yellowing of his eyes. It's jaundice." His gaze falls to the covers. "If you examine his midsection, it should begin to show signs of bloating."

Riff's look of shock confirms this.

"A new liver? How do we obtain one—without killing," I quickly amend, anticipating his ready answer.

Jezabel pauses, staring intently at the domestic painting above Riff's desk. "You'll need have someone contact the local hospital. See if they have a healthy man around twenty-eight years of age who has passed within the hour. Or is about to pass. Tell them to put the liver on ice immediately."

"Healthy, but on the brink of death?"

He smiles nastily. "You can see why Father quickly rejected this method as impractical—and riskier than murder. Enough calls of that nature leave a trail."

"I am not Father. I shan't sacrifice others." I steady myself. "I'll call."

My declaration is met by looks of incredulity from Riff and, to my surprise, Jezabel.

"Are you daft?" Jezabel asks, a note of frustration in his tone. "You cannot call. Lord Hargreaves, calling the local hospital for organs? Can you imagine the scandal? The headlines? _Earl's Latest Obsession_? _Organs to Join Famed Poison Collection_?"

Riff nods. "I do agree, my Lord. To risk the name of the family on my behalf is something I cannot bear."

Color rises in my face, but I keep my calm. "Very well," I concede reluctantly. "Then who?"

Jezabel shakes his head. "I suppose the task falls to me—again."

"I'd appreciate it." I make sure to keep my voice level. "Is there anything you can do now, or does it all require planning?"

A curious look comes over Jezabel's face, as if he has remembered something crucial. "He should receive an injection as soon as possible, to stay in control of his body." He then lists several chemicals as components of such a mixture; I can hardly believe that this is the key to controlling Riff's alternative personality.

"But Riff is the only personality now," I point out. "He destroyed Riffael."

"Did he?" There is a deadly quiet to Jezabel's tone now that frightens me. "How curious."

"Riff would not lie to me." I refuse to entertain such a notion. Riff and I have always been honest with each other.

Fortunately, Riff breaks our standstill. "I have no objection to such an injection."

"Very well," I concede.

When I return with the requested items, Jezabel has moved to perch on Riff's bed, methodically examining him. Riff's hands cannot refrain from shaking, particularly his left. Three jars, a syringe, and an empty beaker join the contents of Riff's beside table: keys, a modest journal, an empty teacup, today's newspaper. I wonder quietly at the items; of course, I knew Riff had a life outside the one he shared with me, but they speak to me of another Riff I may never know. Despite all the time we had spent together, there will always be a part of him that I cannot have for myself. It seems cruel.

My hand stills near the journal, as the intimacy of reading Riff's very thoughts proves enthralling; I will myself away, before Riff can spot me. (Later.)

Relief crashes over me, now that I am finally able to hand my task, my quiet burden, to another. These past few nights, I have seen only an endless wheel of death and blood. I want nothing more than to forget it all, for a series of blissful summer afternoons. Lace tablecloths and lemon tea and lavender soap. (My bones are too heavy with all that I have done.)

I cannot deny the strangeness of watching my brother examine Riff with a distant expression, like one of Mary's dolls. Truthfully, it frightens me how easily he vacillates between that blank stare to all-consuming madness. I wonder if it is exhausting, to know every raging, screaming pain and then nothing, in a ceaseless cycle. It does not do to dwell in possibilities never realized, but I find myself wondering what relationship we might have had, if we had been raised together. We alone bear his blood and wear his cruelty. For all his boundless kindness, Riff has never known the horror of waking up to an empty birdcage.

(Father once buried my one of my birds alive and told me it would die unless I recovered it in time. I tore at every part of the garden, tore at the ground with my ineffectual eight-year-old fingers, unable to think beyond the waves of horror in my mind. Then finally, under the petunias, fresh earth yielded what it had recently claimed for its own. Ashes to ashes. Life to death. When Father died, I ordered the petunias destroyed.)

I wonder now if I am looking at who I would have become, had Father not decided to include Riff in his plans. It hardly matters who was the original, I remind myself. Riff is Riff, and he would never harm me.

As Jezabel preoccupies himself with mixing together something, Riff touches his wrist delicately and whispers something to him. I cannot keep myself from smiling, in spite of my memories; it gladdens my heart to know that my Riff will live; the endless summers that we will share drift throughout my mind like clouds. This one aspect will remain untouched by Father, despite his plans.

Jezabel's expression of indifference, however, turns to confusion at Riff's words, and before I can inquire about the source of such confusion, Riff seizes the back of his neck. With a single motion, Riff guides his head onto the bed post—blood dresses the plain wood. Vials roll and fracture, emptying their contents, as Jezabel collapses onto the floor, unconscious.

I leap to my feet, unable to tear my gaze away from this far too familiar sight. My heart seizes with fear, as I realize why Riff had been so keen on the injection. Riff turns to me, his eyes far, far too bright now. _Riffael_. No. Riff promised me he had been destroyed. No. Anything but this.

(Is it too late? Does my Riff even exist anymore?)

"Did you think you had seen the last of me?" he taunts.

He slams me again. Blood leaps from my mouth onto his shirt, and he tilts his head as he gleefully considers my fate. His hand tightens against my straining tendons; his other passes through my vision to hover over my left eye. "Should I show you those hateful eyes everyone adores?" He grins. "Besides, I hear that eyes are terribly sensitive to pain. It's only fair that I repay the debt of agony you have left to me. Years of service to a brat. A boy who wanted something even deeper than blood ties."

I desperately try to move my head, to avoid the fingers advancing towards my vision, but his grip is more akin to machine than man.

"Riff, don't!" I know that my life now depends on provoking Riff's return. "Riff!" My world lurches, and my grasping intakes of air cannot sustain me for much longer. "Riff... Ri..."

He slams me against the wall, and a sharp pain registers at the back of my head. The wallpaper drips now.

"Keep quiet," he orders.

"Ri...ff... don't..."

The edges of my sight have darkened, a sure sign that I will not live much longer. Perhaps this is the conclusion of Father's curse—that his sons shall not survive him. On a sudden hunch, I redirect my focus from prying apart his fingers to reaching for him, in the desperate hope that touch may succeed where words have failed. My finger tips only manage to brush against his arm, but it suffices. He recoils from my touch, and horror returns to his face. Freed, I collapse onto the floor, spluttering and heaving.

"My Lord. My Lord, what have I done." Riff pales at the sight before him. "I could have... Forgive me." He backs away from me, a look of abject horror on his face. At the trembling of his left arm, a fear and desperation unlike anything I have ever seen crosses his face. It is the trapped look of the fox before the hounds rend it into bloody bones. "Forgive me, my Lord. I-I cannot allow him to hurt you again. He will _never_ stop, now that he is free. Not unless I take him to hell."

Before I can process this, he turns from me—and in a swift motion, blood surges forth once more, and he collapses, a large shard of glass biting at his fingers. (Meridiana plunges the concealed dagger into her heart. Blood pours from her opened chest.) I scream at the way the his body reveals its secrets to me, emptying itself onto the floor.

"NO!" I hardly care if the entire house hears me. "NO! RIFF! PLEASE!" I clutch at him. "Don't leave me, Riff! You swore you'd follow me to hell."

My shouts seem to have awoken Jezabel. He frowns at the blood that stains his fingers, as if he cannot quite understand what has transpired.

Struggling with Riff's weight, I call out to him, unable to contain the shaking in my voice. "It's Riff. You have to do something! He'll die!"

A strange look comes over Jezabel, as he surveys Riff. "It's too late," he concludes quietly. "There's nothing to be done."

"You've reanimated corpses! How can there be nothing left?" I turn to the trembling man in my embrace. "Riff, stay with me! Please! Don't leave me!"

"There's no reversing the disintegration once it has begun."

To my horror, parts of Riff's body have begun to collapse into ash. With what must be his last strength, he gently turns my head away from the sight of his ruined body to face him. He searches my face with those warm, kindly eyes of his. "Forgive me. I could not allow myself to harm you. I have finally run out of time to protect you. You'll do quite well without me, my Lord. I've always needed you far more than you have."

"Nonsense." I can hardly see him through the tears that fall freely; for all my attempts, I have never been adept at concealing my emotions. "Who will tie my shoelaces? Who will make me tea? I shan't drink anyone else's."

He smiles at my disagreement. "I imagine that you will do much as you have done in my absence. You're not made of porcelain, my Lord, no matter how I might have thought so." There is a marked length between his words now. "Maybe I kept you a child, when I should have let you be a man. Forgive me my foolishness." He strokes my face, brushing aside my hair. "You brought me as much joy as if I had been born of flesh and blood. As if you had been my true son." Tears build, but do not fall from his eyes. "I have loved you as much as if you were of my blood. I go gladly to hell, knowing that you are safe from him at last."

Only his trembling hand keeps my gaze fixated on his—and away from investigating the lightening weight in my arms.

"You truly do have a kind heart," he whispers, flecks falling from his cracked lips. In a terrible rush, dust sloughs from his bones, as all that I have known and loved dissipates. Dust seeps into my clothes and onto the floor, sliding into the grooves of the floor, piling around the bloody shard.

My arms cradle only memories.

"...Riff." I don't recognize my voice. It seems to come from anywhere but my throat. I try to gather up all that remains of my faithful companion: my fingers scrape at the tiny mounds—I can never retrieve all of it, it seems: there is always some of Riff left behind. My movements grow more frantic, as I realize that Riff is slipping away from me at last. I cannot surrender this, not this sole reminder of Riff and all he gave me. As an alternative personality, he possessed no soul.

I will never hear his voice again, never know his gentle embrace.

"He's dead, Cain." A moment passes before I register that it is the voice of my brother. "He's dead." He watches me with a strange expression: pain and apprehension and underneath it, sorrow. A bit of blood glides down his face in a steady, focused stream.

For a moment, I am back at Delilah, bound and forced to listen to the steady trickle of Cassian's blood; panic and the unique madness of sorrow overtake me. The meager amount of Riff I have collected spills, as I double over, clutching at myself as my heart fractures. Again. As it has done so many times before. Each time I think there must be nothing left to rend from me, I am proven wrong.

Father was correct: I am the calamity child, the one who brings suffering to all he loves. My blood cannot refrain from destroying.

How foolish I have been, in my endeavors to deny fate.

* * *

 **Notes:**

I like Riff a lot as a character, but his death was planned from the start. Are there more deaths? Only the outline knows.

Also, I really do love hearing back from readers. I promise I'm much nicer than what I write, and I do respond to comments. Reader feedback actually has influenced the plot, to a certain degree.

As always, thank you for reading.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes:**

I cannot keep the existentialism out of my writings. It crept back in, folks. It's angst time again. My favorite hour.

And if you thought that there was more than a touch of _Tokyo Babylon_ in the last chapter's death scene, well, you're not wrong. It's been half a year, and it still messes me up.

* * *

 _Cain_

My world fades into the bleak grey of the London fog. From my bed, I watch it advance, quietly consuming the trees at the edge of the horizon. I can almost see _him_ , his kind smile as he throws open the curtains, wordlessly announcing the morning. Every time I revisit the memory, it seems less substantial, as if it, like Riff, is slowly fading from my mind. I grip the pillow, as hot tears fall down my face. I have lost everything, again. Riff was my Atlas, my foundation. He and I were as inseparable as the air.

( _"As if you were my true son."_ )

"Then why did you abandon me!" I throw the pillow across the room. "We could have done this together, you and I! I could have kept you alive, had you not been so damned foolish!"

Even as the words fall from my lips, I know them to be false, and I sob as if my heart has a thousand pins in it—as if it is held open to the world like a specimen. A curiosity to marvel and jeer at. Look at the black heart of the calamity child, who thought he could escape the family curse. Riff tried to protect me from the sight of his decay, but I remember Michaela's death, and my mind easily stitches the two images together.

"...how could you leave me here? Riff..."

All is for naught. For all my efforts, Father has truly won this time—I failed to kill him, I failed to save Riff. Part of me wants nothing more than to blame Riff's death on Jezabel, but I know truly that I was the one who saw hope where there was none. I was the one who refused to let go. I endangered Mary on a whim, I used another man's memory as leverage, and for what? A few suspicion-ridden days of a past that could never be recreated.

And now, nothing remains of him. Only the memories that will flicker and fade, like letters in a fire. He spoke of my being a man, but how could he not see that I became a man too soon. I am the child without a childhood. Is it wrong of me to want what I had so briefly? That illusion of security and loyalty?

Movement at the door interrupts my thoughts. For a moment, I wonder if it is Jezabel, come to claim my eyes; if so, then he has chosen his timing well, for I will offer his blade no resistance. That would finally put an end to the family curse. And then one of us, at least, would get what he desires. My wish, however, is not to be. Mary peers from behind the door, hesitant and worried. Somehow, she has aged since I last saw her. Her eyes are too old for her youthful appearance.

"Mary?" The hoarseness of my voice pains me. I do not even sound like myself.

"Big brother? I-"

She tries to feign a smile, and I clasp her tightly to me, ashamed that I had thought only of my own pain. How could I leave her all alone in the world again, when I am the only one she can truly call family? She, in turn, burrows into my shirt, and begins to cry, despite her struggle not to. It only deepens my shame. I have to be strong for her, because no one else will be. I must protect her innocence. I must bear the weight of both of us, so that she may have what remains of her childhood.

(Have I stolen her childhood as well? Or is the Hargreaves curse that its children must grow old long before it is time?)

"I'm here, Mary. I'm here. I won't ever leave you."

She nods mutely.

Remembering how Riff comforted me all those years ago in the garden, I rock her gently, as a mother would, and murmur sweet reassurances to her: a dream of endless summer and tea parties. Sunflowers and bluebells and whispering trees. I continue this until the tension has drained from her and her tears have subsided into hiccups.

"Riff is gone, isn't he?"

"He's on a journey," I lie.

"He's dead." She hesitates as if she wants to add something, but decides against it.

I wonder at how she came to know about this so quickly, but I say nothing. That would just confirm her suspicions.

"Is it truly just us now?" she asks, as she wipes away the remainder of her tears.

I pause, as my thoughts travel back to my brother. "Not quite."

Mary gives me a hesitant look, worry in those cornflower-blue eyes of hers. "But don't you know?"

I frown. "Know what?"

* * *

 _Jezabel_

Life has become akin to the tides, a ceaseless, monotonous push-and-pull of life and sleep. Sleep and life. Cain has abandoned me to his grief—the natural outcome of his foolishness—as I predicted. Unconditional love is merely a hoax that keeps society together, for what could be more fearful than reality, where only a thin veneer of politeness and civility conceals the cruelty of life?

I dream in red; flowing, coagulating, drying, weeping, bleeding _red_. The secrets and not-secrets that reveal themselves with a twist of the knife, like pearls from an oyster. Sometimes, Cassian waits for me at the window, asking me with those fathomless, dead eyes questions I cannot answer. Sometimes, Father stands in the doorway, glaring down at his wayward almost-son—the impossible gaze of God. Sometimes, Cassandra hides in the blankets, and I spend the night, shaking, in wait for a man who never arrives. Sometimes, Snark runs beyond the door, bleating but always out of reach.

Almost-son, almost-brother. I am an endless compilation of almosts that have never sufficed, so it hardly pains me that Cain has left me alone; after all, I have served the only purpose he could see in me, and what use is a tool to one who has no need of it? ( _What is the use of a son whose devotion is lacking?_ ) Having no use left, I quietly dissolve myself in the world beyond the window. It is a simple enough trick, but the problem is more returning than leaving. I drown myself in the vast emptiness and forget my rotting body.

I cannot bring myself to eat anything. Snark is in every meal they push at me, and I cannot bear the weight of more sins. Sometimes, my heart trembles artlessly in its panic, as if it knows, as I do, the inevitable outcome of my refusal. I recognize the symptoms, of course, but I hardly care now. I'm terribly weary, weary enough to shed my skin and return to the world I know best. (The question remains, though—will it know me? I have changed.)

Having spent a lifetime fantasizing about it, I thought it would bring me amusement and satisfaction, to witness the destruction of that terrible bond. The fantasy of how Cain would launch himself into hysterics at the sight of Riff's corpse kept me alive through many of the lonely nights in the laboratory. I could never decide if he would break down weeping or just stare, broken, into the distance. Maybe he would throw himself from the window in despair, or shoot himself, melodramatically whispering Riff's name as he pulled the trigger.

Reality is never as satisfying as fantasy, however. Father proved that truth to me a lifetime ago. I had thought the fantasy of my death more appealing than the blood-strewn mess it left me in, over and over again. The first time, it showed me the distance between love and almost-love—how life and death are symbiotic. Then, how both Father and I were wrong—that love proves stubborn and foolhardy in its many guises. That I was damned to repeat the past: the same pattern, different variables. My life has always required blood.

When I saw the way Cain scrabbled at the heaps of dust, guilt—not satisfaction, not schadenfreude, not superiority at being immune to the fantasy of unconditional love—came over me. I realized what I had known for a while, but had never acknowledged to myself: their glass bond had been an anomaly, an outlier, in a world of blood and terror. Maybe that, in itself, made it worth preserving the fantasy.

Even if it was a foolish one.

I lied to myself when I gave Riff control over his body—that I was merely awaiting the perfect moment to expose their bond for all its folly. Timing, after all, is critical for the denouncement to the Hargreaves tragedy. The next time, I put up a false front, a ludicrous demand that Riff could never be expected to honor. When Father caught me, I found it surprising that, rather than the malicious joy that governed my fantasies, I felt a quiet regret that Cain would find out what the world was truly made of; a feeling dogged by the ever-present envy that he—darling, precious, indispensable Cain—had been sheltered from such a truth. It seems I could never make up my mind as to how I perceived their bond, preserving it even as I longed to break it.

Now, in Riff's absence, there is an accounting, not unlike in the book of life, occurring in this house; I see it in the worried looks of the maid who takes away the untouched tray. I see it in the lines of the old man (Neil?), who studies me as if I am a puzzle. One word here, a connection there, and the secret unfolds. It reminds me of the word games I played with Father.

(Turn rat into cog, letter by letter; no cheating, Jezabel.

Turn bird into game, four letters this time; come now, it is not that difficult.

Turn dead into alive, piece by piece; good boy, clean the knife now.)

Therefore, no surprise registers with me when a man comes to ask me more word games. Funny ones too. Ones like "Do you know who I am? Do you know who you are? Do you know what day it is?" and so forth. This is clearly routine for him, and my answers will not affect the outcome, which has been decided long before he stepped into the room. I would hazard a guess that it has been determined ever since that doctor came by. This is merely a formality. I would not be surprised if Neil had obtained the two signatures necessary for my imprisonment not long after my arrival.

Neil waits patiently in his chair as they discuss me, as if I cannot hear them, as if I am an object, a curiosity. They toss around multi-syllabic words as if that can capture what has been done: neurasthenia, monomania, melancholia, and so on. Neil quickly rejects neurasthenia; apparently he believes that I have only worsened since I came here, and he does not believe this to be a temporary madness.

The alienist seems very invested in the diagnosis of organic insanity, as he continues to question Neil about my visible head wound. While it has begun to heal, the angry red of new skin stands out. He tries to get a better look at it, and I flinch when he advances too close. He weighs my reaction carefully, before drawing back, questioning Neil on Augusta's condition—lypemania. After Cain's birth, she alternated between ceaseless distress at anything related to Father and listlessness. They had to restrain her to take her to the sanitarium. For some reason, Neil seems uncomfortable at this; I suppose he is ashamed at the madness he believes to run through the bloodline.

The alienist tries again to rule out delirium, but I refuse to speak to him. Straightening his coat, he announces his conclusion of organic insanity, with hereditary disposition and secondary melancholia. A poor prognosis. Neil does not look relieved at the diagnosis, but he hardens himself.

I, on the other hand, find it deeply amusing that Father was right, as always. He always threatened that if I ever left, I would either disappear or be committed for madness. But at my present situation, I cannot bring myself to feel anything: not fear, nor anger, nor sadness. I will fold all my terrible secrets within my body, and no one will ever be the wiser. And so I do not react when I hear the words that Father has always threatened me with—it was merely a matter of time, it seems. I cannot live in a world bereft of Father; that is not how I was molded.

It is to my surprise then, when the variable Father has always failed to account for, comes striding in, eternally self-possessed and foolhardy. The blotchy patches in his normally ivory face announce that he had been crying earlier, but he seems determined in spite of it.

"Why, may I ask, are you intruding on my brother, while he is in mourning," Cain demands of the alienist, in the most carefully, dangerously polite tone he can manage.

Neil quickly conceals his expression of surprise. "Ah, Cain. This is Doctor Emmett. He has come at my request to examine your brother."

(When did my status become elevated from half-brother to brother? I suppose half brother has so many unpleasant implications, and I wonder just how much this new doctor believes this story, considering I do not resemble Father in the least.)

"Has he?" Cain asks, in that curious tone that announces his refusal to accept such a thing.

Neil chooses his next words deliberately and firmly. "It is the professional opinion of Doctor Emmett that your brother is insane, with an unfavorable prognosis."

Cain stiffens. "Well, I must disagree. I believe that, if anything, it is an obvious case of grief, and not insanity."

I think Father just turned in his grave. Suffice it to say, I will be sorely disappointed if this turns out to be a fever dream.

The alienist proceeds to pick precisely the wrong time to join the conversation. "It is a very pleasant sanitarium. I believe that we cared for your Aunt Augusta there."

"My _aunt_?" Cain asks, in a delicate tone.

"Yes, your _Aunt_ Augusta." Something akin to disapproval enters Neil's tone.

"I think, Uncle, that since this is a _family affair_ , that we ought to discuss it with the family before taking such drastic measures."

A brief exchange of stares between Cain and Neil ensues for a heated minute. An vexed exhalation from Neil announces that Cain, as always, will get his way—for now, at least; clearly he does not want the scene that Cain was threatening. Sometimes, the upper class is terribly predictable in their desire to keep family matters private.

"I think we will have to cut this visitation short, doctor," Neil begins smoothly. "Do forgive me. As this does not appear to be a pressing case, I believe that this can wait a day or two. I can have one of the footmen see you out." As he leaves with the alienist, however, Neil gives Cain a look indicating that this matter is quite far from settled.

* * *

Uncomfortable silence surrounds us, as I am too puzzled to make out his intentions now. The amusement of watching Cain vouch for me is quite gone now that I have to decipher its meaning. In fact, I almost wish it had not happened, precisely because I cannot fathom it. Nothing happens without a motive.

When Neil has left, Cain visibly slackens, all the fight drained from him. He moves to take a seat near me.

"Are you," he manages finally, "alright?"

I take note of the hesitation in his question. At least he does not labor under any delusions that I am not still angry with him.

"I thought that was what you wanted," I remark stiffly. Particularly since I no longer have a use.

Cain stares out the window. "Is it really so difficult to believe? You're my brother."

"Half brother," I correct.

"Brother, nonetheless."

I sigh at his foolishness. It bothers me, for some reason, that he had kept me from my fate; truthfully, I suspect this to be a trap, the moment before the axe falls. But what can he take from me that has not already been taken?

"Father," he begins slowly, "would take joy in knowing that his last act was to fracture the family even further."

"Are we a family now?" I ask, bitterly. "I had no idea."

Loneliness serves as his motivation. I am a poor substitute for Riff, as he no doubt knows.

He exhales, exasperated. "You're terribly difficult, you know. "

I have an overwhelming desire to continue in this nasty vein, to push him and his implicit offer aside, before he realizes, like Father, that I am weak and ugly and replaceable—and then he'll see fit to abandon me. Little does he know that I'll destroy this—whatever one calls this fledgling of a relationship—before he can.

Unconditional love is merely a falsehood.

"Don't you understand?" He pauses, as his expression becomes pained. "We're alive. And as long as we are alive, we can experience everything Father never wanted us to have. For better or worse." His voice quivers with sorrow, but he continues. "What Father has done cannot be undone. Riff is gone forever, and part of me is gone with him. But I, I choose life, because that's what Riff would have wanted. It's what he died—" He furiously wipes his face with his fingers, as his voice cracks. "And who am I to cast aside his final gift to me."

He sounds as if he is desperately trying to convince himself, and that saddens me, against my better nature. Father's last words return to me. I cannot figure them out now: whether they signified forgiveness or gratitude or—I cannot name the last possibility. The idea that even Father could have his regrets seems ludicrous. I know truly that he never cared for me—no, not I, his bastard. We remain in silence for some time, until I decide to break it, curious about his decision in spite of myself.

"Do you truly believe that?"

"I hope it's true," he replies. "People are such strange creatures. I hardly know what to think of them. There is blood and death and cruelty in this world, but there is also Mary and Riff and kindness and sacrifice." Another long silence ensues. "I sometimes wonder what I would have been like, if Riff had never been kind to me. Would I, in turn, never have adopted Mary? Would she have died in the streets? Sometimes, sometimes I get so frightened at how closely our lives are interconnected with those of others. Perhaps we are the sum of our interactions even more than our personalities."

I wonder at this. Would I have fractured further without Cassian, with only my birds to sustain me? He kept me alive, against my intentions, for reasons I can only guess at now. And it pains me to continue to live without him. It is not that he was the foundation of my world, but that he seemed to believe that I was worth saving, after all that I have done. Somehow, he infiltrated my lonely world with his disarming words and revelations. That, in itself, is a frightening notion, for to be affected by words is to become vulnerable, and I know far too well the price that such a state entails.

"Aren't you frightened of me?" I ask, broaching the topic neither one of us wants to discuss.

"Yes," he admits, picking at the stitches at his sleeve. "For what's worth, it's been a week. You could have easily killed me at any time during that period, and you chose not to. That must signify something."

"Maybe it signifies nothing."

"I choose to see meaning in it, even if you don't." He catches my gaze. "And maybe, I was foolish to hold onto the past, but I don't regret it. There may never be a record of his life, or even anything to show for it, but he is alive in my actions, because of what he has done. Maybe that is all we are allowed."

"That seems unfair, somehow. To live and die, and see no recompense for the thousand slings and arrows of life."

Cain senses that I am not talking about Riff. "He loved you," he says carefully.

"To hell with it. To hell with his love!" I cannot keep the anger out of my voice. "What good has his love done? What good has any of this love done?"

He watches me, as if he does not know what to say. Good.

"And when I am dead," I continue, unable to stop myself, "when I am dead, it will be as if he is truly dead, because he had no family. Or none that cared." For some reason, that thought bothers me so. How strange that I should care for a human being, after I was so careful to shut them out.

"Do you despise me, because of it?"

"It is not as if I could bring him back now. You heard Father, he deliberately destroyed his brain so that I couldn't—" I choke on my own words out of anger and guilt. "His body lies rotting, rotting in a coffin of rubble and delusions."

I cannot contain the memories of cleaning that bloodstained face, forever terrified. The warmth of his blood threatens to soak into my cuff, even now. My hands tighten. The unbearable chaos whispers to me again, and I want to puncture those eyes that watch me with such worry and fear. I am so weary of living in such a stained world, where I am reminded of all that I have lost—and all that I will never be. At my irregular breathing, alarm replaces the caution on Cain's face, but I hardly care. I have a half a mind to take him up on his offer and ruin those hateful eyes that mark him as special and dangerous, if he will not let me be. I'll destroy the both of us. But he has always known that, hasn't he? So as Cain killed Abel, so has he killed me, by displacing me as Father's son. I have lost everything to him. It's only fair that I—

My inner ramblings are interrupted by a curious sensation. A glance reveals that he has, to my surprise, carefully placed his hand on mine. I half draw back from shock. He swallows nervously, watching me closely and clearly unsure if he has just made a fatal mistake. Fortunately, or unfortunately, I am so disarmed by his show that I can hardly think—all that registers is the warmth of his porcelain hand. I marvel at the softness of his skin, the surprising thinness of his fingers, the slight, involuntary twitching of his tendons. The way his veins glide in his flesh. It is not through polite flattery that he has gained a reputation as beautiful. Once the novelty has worn off, I become uncertain as to what to make of his display: it is not a show of domination, as with Cassandra, nor a clumsy attempt to replicate romance, as with Meridiana. For a moment, I wonder just whose hand is shaking, before I realize that it must be his.

Moments pass between us in silence. I think about Cassian, how his little hand left his warmth, and his mark, on my skin. The feeling of loss as it slipped from me, its owner unable to summon the strength to continue. I contemplate how his look of grim determination brought me shock at our fateful meeting in the train station. Regret returns to me, in the absence that anger has left. Sometimes, I wonder what would have happened if I had departed with him, to anywhere but London. For the first time, I wonder if my life does not just belong to me alone.

"I have no need of a rescuer," I say quietly.

Relief shows on Cain's face, as he exhales the breath he has unconsciously been keeping in. It is pleasant, but also sad somehow to see just how afraid he is of me—not without reasonable cause, I might add.

"I'm not a rescuer. I'm your brother."

This repeated insistence on family ties that he has never considered before irritates me. I wrench my hand from under his, and unconsciously clasp my other over it, protectively.

"You want to save me. Save me and add me to your little menagerie," I accuse, anger steadily building in me as I recall the last few _rescuers_ of mine. "The last man who tried to save me was Cassian, who, as you very well know, died with his brain mutilated. The one before that was Lord Gladstone." I pause, savoring the look of horror and disgust that shows on his face at the mere mention of his name. "He thought I was his." I can't seem to stop myself. The words have a terrible life of their own. "His little Jezabel, his lover, his little caged bird to be cooed over and patronized. Just a _marvelous_ addition to his collection."

My hand unconsciously searches my throat for what no longer rests there. Sometimes, I think that this is how a phantom limb must feel.

Cain pales and looks as though he has seen far too much now. Good.

"He wanted everything of mine, and so I took everything of his." I lower my voice, knowing that Cain hangs on my every malicious syllable, and I pluck one of the roses from the vase. The flowers are so accusing in their untarnished wholeness; I cannot bear it. "He didn't seem to realize that I, for all his opulent fantasies, am no Ophelia. I laid his head bare." I make certain to catch Cain's eye, as I rip the head off the rose. "And I severed his brain stem, and out everything that contained him came. And that was the end of him." With a terrible, false smile, I set the headless rose back into the vase.

(And it wasn't enough to wash off the marks he left.)

I wonder if Cain will vomit.

"But you—you want to seize the only option for revenge that still remains. I am just the means to your end. I suppose you think I'll just abandon Father and mend my ways, and all will be right." I decapitate another flower. "Everyone will still be dead. There's no cure for death, Cain. Not for you, not for me, not for Father." The petals yield easily in my hands as I sever them from their base. I don't want any more reminders of all I have lost.

"I don't want to be saved," I continue angrily. "I won't ever leave Father. He was the only one who—" The only one who was ever happy I existed.

(Even from beyond the grave, he still exerts his inescapable pull on me.)

I pause, as a terrible realization dawns on me. "Or perhaps, you are just the same as Father. Is that it? I'm the only close blood relative of yours left now. Does the family curse run in your blood as well?"

Cain's eyes widen, and his hand tightens on the chair, when he understands the implications—not because I have guessed correctly, but I have said far too much. His mouth gapes slightly open in horror, as if words have failed him. As if he just realized he was not the sole recipient of Father's affections. (What did he think happened all those years Father was away? That Father suddenly reformed and mended his ways? On whom, exactly, did he think Father refined his skills?) His expression of horror and pity repulses me. I do not want it. I do not want any of this.

"Stop it!" My voice, in its high pitch of terror, seems alien to me, as if I am merely a spectator.

Ivy and rabbits prove to be no match for the wall; the saucer shatters beside him, but his expression does not falter.

"Stop looking at me like that!"

The teapot goes next. It ruins the wallpaper, its cold, ugly insides streaming down.

The teacup, however, is spared only because I am shaking so badly that I cannot grip anything properly. There are not enough porcelain dishes to unmake his stare of horror—this terrible kinship rooted in the unspeakable. This is worse than when I told him about Snark; then, at least, I could seek refuge in dissociation, so that it happened to some unfortunate soul, but never me. I had wanted him to know the price that his existence had exacted from me. This, this is a bleeding wound.

"...stop it."

I cannot escape the terrible knowledge of what can never be undone. I curl on myself, shaking and sobbing. This vast emptiness at being left behind is too much to bear; my bones curve under the weight of a sea of sins. For everything Father has done to me, I cannot abandon the sensation of love and purpose he bestowed upon me—the slight smile of approval every time I studied the mysteries of the body, the innocent, familial embraces far from the furtive ones in his bedchambers.

Cain crouches beside me, watching me with those sad eyes of his. There's a helplessness to them, and that is not an emotion that I had ever ascribed to him before. He settles with his back against the wall.

"I am _not_ Father," he stresses. "Even if I did want to know you carnally, I would never act on it."

I shake my head in disbelief. "You'll use me, and then you'll leave."

"No," he says simply. "No. I won't. You can break everything in this room, and I won't leave you. As long as you keep Mary and Uncle Neil our of your plans, I won't leave you." He exhales, clearly trying to mask his unnerved state. "Sooner or later, you'll stop crying, and then we can figure out what is to be done. And if I have to ask a medium to channel Cassian's spirit for guidance, then I'll do that."

"What on earth makes you think he'll answer," I demand, through my tears. I am beyond the mortification of knowing that Cain has seen me weep.

"Because he loved you." Cain stares beyond the wall, deep in thought. "You may not believe it, but he did. And so, you have to live for him, because destroying yourself will only bring Father joy and mirth, wherever he may be now." His lips tremble with a sadness he barely contains. "That's what I choose."

( _Just call me_.)

"Whenever you're ready, we'll face this future together. Because that's all that remains to be done. We cannot unmake the past, and so we must make do with the future."

The quiet certainty in his voice unnerves me. I had never anticipated living beyond Father's ritual of regeneration. The notion proves to far, far too much to bear, and I cry for the boundless emptiness of a future I never anticipated. I cry for the futures I will never have. I cry for the love from Cassian that I will never know, because I shunned it out of fear and ignorance. I cry for Snark and my sisters and Mother and even Father. I cry from the guilt of the sins I have committed. Most of all, I cry for myself, for all the lost, splintered parts that haunt me, for the person I will never be. I cry and cry and cry until, finally, I am reduced to little gasps and the tell-tale aching of a heart faced with unbearable change.

More than anything, I am exhausted, exhausted enough to sleep for forty years.

Cain takes note of my state.

"I'd offer you some tea," he begins wryly, "but I think I'll have to ring for a new set."

He quietly searches for my hand, lightly tugging it towards him.

"No one can be helped against their wishes, but maybe I can make the journey a little more bearable. I think that's all that's in my power to do, but it's something only I can do."

It occurs to me just how alike Cain and Cassian are, beyond their surface appearance. Both are foolishly, hopelessly difficult to understand in their stubbornness, in their insistence on redemption, no matter how unlikely the possibility. Why can they not see, as I do, that unconditional love is merely a lie? That we are merely selfish, ugly creatures?

At the sight of the clock, he pauses. "Is that the time? Well, I suppose I'll just have tea here, with you. If that is alright with you?"

I take note of the way he tries not to fidget, as he gauges my reaction to his proposal; beneath his light, carefully crafted tone is uncertainty. I wonder if this is how it begins, this act of leaving Father. I am not foolish enough to believe that my memories will ever cease, but perhaps that is not all I am allowed. I think back on Cain's gesture of comfort and his trembling hand; I hardly understand why he remains here, if I am no longer of use. Instinct tells me to bolt, that the axe is advancing, that cycle cannot be broken, that he has something truly cruel planned.

"Why not?" I reply, hoarsely.

He thinks he takes care in concealing it, but I catch his small smile as he goes to pull the bell cord. What a strange person my brother is turning out to be.

I think Cassian would be proud.

* * *

 **Notes:**

The word game Jezabel alludes to is based on a real Victorian game, where you would change a word, letter by letter, into a new one. For example, rat into cog would look something like this: rat, cat, cot, cog. The last set he gives, however, is impossible to solve, because the words are of different lengths.

Cain's declaration of all he can do intentionally mirrors Mary's speech in canon about the limits and duties of love. Because I love that speech so, so much.

Because I try to keep this as historically accurate as I can, the diagnoses are from Mental Maladies; a Treatise on Insanity (1845), a very real Victorian textbook on insanity, which I read part of for this chapter.

Thank you for continuing to read. I'm humbled, as always. Let me know what you think of it, if you'd like! I love to hear from readers, and I value your feedback.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes:**

Well, I hope you wanted angst, because there's angst in this chapter. Sweet baby Jesus, what have I done?

* * *

 _Jezabel_

I should have remembered that nothing lasts.

I have always detested suppers with Father; without fail, they always included some tortured animal that he would coerce me into consuming. If I failed to appear, I could anticipate his arrival in my bed chambers and a much worse meal, most often the shining, raw heart of a lamb. He would sit across from me, asking in a long-suffering voice where I had acquired such a willful streak, if I would prefer another man's company, perhaps Cassandra's? If his threats failed, he would adopt a cold air of disapproval and disdain, far more effective than any whips, until I acquiesced to his wishes. His half smile of satisfaction after I lay the trembling fork down. His phantom of a kiss on my throat, a promise of what was to occur next. Didn't I know that I was his?

My reminiscences abruptly fade as one the footmen lowers the platter, and from a quick glance at Cain, I know that I am to help myself. I think briefly on my room, and how pleasant it was alone. Steeling myself, I take a small portion; this continues with several more footmen. I can manage this, can't I? I can prove to Neil that I am functional and stable—not the mercurial figure he thinks me.

Only when the footmen resume their positions at the edges of the dining room, do I realize my dilemma. The unmistakable smell of roasted lamb drifts towards me, and revulsion arises in me. Revulsion and terror. I have done this to myself. I have led myself into another trap.

Another furtive glance confirms that Cain has already started eating and no doubt expects me to begin soon; I stall for time by drinking some of the wine. Perhaps if I intoxicate myself enough, I can manage. I, however, succeed in only making myself lightheaded, which fear does nothing to alleviate. (I am twelve again, and Father is asking me if I should like to see Snark.) The fork quivers in my hand, as I desperately will myself to eat. Snark stirs within me, uncoiling, undulating. Demanding that I do not forget. Nausea overwhelms me, as I relive how this innocent must have died: an axe to the neck, the outpouring of blood that extinguished its breath. The pain of betrayal and the fear of death. And then, nothingness.

My hesitation has drawn Cain's attention. He watches me with an indecipherable expression; Alexis watches me, expecting—always expecting something. Something akin to understanding dawns on Cain, and he moves to say something, but I do not hear him. Instead, I bolt with only the thinnest of excuses, no doubt confirming Neil's assumptions about my fragility.

This was an intentional choice on Cain's part, I am certain. I have been such a fool to ever think that I could leave Father—my maker, the one who shaped me into the person I am now. It has never been a question of wanting to serve him: my wishes have never had any role in the matter. I have been struggling against the inevitable, guided by a phantom constructed entirely of my own loneliness. Cassian was never there in my room. If there is an afterlife, then he has moved on—that much, at least, is clear from Father's research into the matter. All of this will only end with our deaths.

The halls writhe around me, as if gloating in the knowledge that I will never, ever leave them—as if I am in the bowels of a monster. Footsteps haunt me, and I quicken my steps, to evade my pursuer. I keep to the left, but it makes no difference. There is no exit, no end. In my desperation, I seize the first door latch I can see, and find myself alone, in what quickly reveals itself to be an unused study.

Entranced, I investigate beyond sheeted furniture and pristine, yet clearly untouched shelves. Riffling through the desk drawers, I come upon a series of yellowed letters—and the handwriting alone announces the previous owner of this room. Father. I trace the haphazard, thin letters that delineate his name. The family name that was denied to me. The unsent letters themselves prove mundane: one to his broker, another to the apothecary, yet another inquiring into a private tutor for Cain. I frown at how he describes Cain—willful, disobedient, in need of a firm hand. Perhaps he was never as enamored with his _true_ son as he led me to believe.

It occurs to me that these must have been the letters he was composing on the day Augusta died, and yet, considering their worn creases, I am hardly the first person to sort through them. I wonder if Cain ever read them, to gain some insight into Father, as I am doing now. For some reason, that thought upsets me, that Cain might be as lost as I am when it comes to understanding the enigma Father left. I throw the letters back into the drawer in a fit of rage.

I do not like the thought that Cain and I might not be so dissimilar.

Something in the corner catches my eye, and cautiously, I approach it. Father's pipe, so carefully cleaned and preserved. Tobacco stains the bowl, and I can almost see him again, lazily lighting it after an accomplishment. With a jerk of his wrist, he effortlessly extinguishes the light, and exhales my name with plumes of smoke. As if he is on fire. I move to set the pipe back down, as guilt returns, but my hand cannot relinquish what my heart never has. And I cannot keep all those memories from returning, tearing and dragging at me like waves at the seashore. It seems I can never forget.

In the gilded mirror, I see my mother again. Her lost eyes, her hair shorn. Too thin and too pale. Carrying on as if she is not the one responsible for all of this. If she had just protected me, the way mothers ought to, why then I might never have ended like this, with a hole in my skull and iron in my heart.

"Go on then," I start, unable to contain my hatred for her. "Go on and abandon me again."

Voiceless, she just stares at me, just as she was in life. Too weak to protect her children, too weak to say no, too weak to accept divine judgement. Her frightened demeanor enrages me, beyond anything I have known.

" _Woman, behold thy son_!" I quote. " _Can a woman forget her suckling child, that she should not have compassion on the son of her womb?_ You abandoned me, you wretched woman. And now that you are too frightened to face the fires of hell, you dare to haunt me, as you do! Go on then, and leave me be."

The mirror shatters before I understand what has transpired. The mirror has shattered, and Father's pipe lies among the broken shards.

"There you are."

Slightly breathless, Cain braces himself against the wall.

And in that moment, I finally know what must be done, what remains to be done. All that is left is to bridge the gap between the present and the certainty that hangs behind. Carefully, I pick up a shard, knowing that it holds the remnants of my life within. This will never end until both of us are dead. Even as I advance towards him, he does not move from where he stands. I am not his Ophelia, nor his drowned puppy to rescue through the power of love. He should have known what real love is like.

Real love leaves scars.

In a single gesture borne of practice, I seize his throat and shove him against the patterned wall. The photographs tremble on a nearby side table. I hold the shard to his lovely throat, preparing for the deluge of warmth that inevitably follows.

"This is your choice?" He gives me an incredulous look. "You think _this_ is what will put everything to rest? More blood?"

For some reason, his disappointment wounds me. Did he think he could reform me with a few empty words and a foolhardy gesture?

"Someone has to end this." I can hardly recognize the coldness in my own voice. "What we've done cannot be forgiven." I will end this for both of us, before he can hurt me, before he can repeat what Father did to me, before he can destroy whatever is left of me—and there is so little left. I adjust my grip on his neck; his tendons twitch under my fingers. I do not tilt his throat back, as I have seen actors on stage do; that will only serve to hide the critical veins.

"This will never end, not even with our deaths," Cain counters, strangely brave for a man on his deathbed. "It will live on in Mary, in Uncle Neil, in every life Father touched. But you and I have a say in how it affects us." He gives me a hard look. "And you and I have a say in how it ends."

I shake my head. "He made both of us to be what we are." The smell of the forest, thick with life, returns to me abruptly, and I cannot keep my sudden anger out of my voice. "I will _never_ go back to how I used to be, but I must live with the knowledge of what could have been. I can think of no crueler fate."

"Then everyone's sacrifice was in vain?"

"Sacrifice? Cassian was a fool! He-he felt guilty." An angry tear falls down my face, but I pay it no heed. "He wanted to save me, because I reminded him of how he used to be. He wanted to save himself. But he was wrong because it was already too late."

Cain stares at me, as if he cannot quite figure out who I am.

It's all fantasy, regardless," I continue, unable to stop myself. "Riff was just conditioned to love you." I hardly care how cruel my words seem: jealousy fills me at the thought of how Cain lived his illusion of love, while I had to make do with the threadbare memories of Father's embrace. "There really isn't any such thing as unconditional love."

To my surprise, Cain merely looks wearily resigned to such a notion. "Perhaps, but that imperfect love is all we have."

My words, sharp and cruel, fail me. I fumble for something, anything to hurt him. Cain, however, seizes his opportunity.

"A heart is not something to be kept alone. Isolation changes it, Jezabel. It will be safe from everyone, but it will suffocate into something unrecognizable, bitter, and cruel." He gives me a curious look. "But you know that already, don't you?" He places his hands on the one around his throat, not in an attempt to pry my fingers away, but in an unspoken demand that I acknowledge my current actions. "You have already lived a life of safety, and you and I both know how pleasant that was."

His words are crueler than any I could fathom.

"Then what was that-that—" I choke on my own words. I cannot bring myself to name it.

"Goddamnit Jezabel, not everything is designed to hurt you!" He sighs, exasperated, yet still uncertain of me. "I had no idea what menus Uncle Neil approved this morning. I wouldn't advise you to read anything into it. He doesn't know."

I weigh his words carefully. "But he knows now."

"I told him you were one of those oversensitive people who refuses to eat meat." Cain smiles ruefully, and the notion that this is far preferable to the truth goes unspoken. At this, I wonder just how much he is concealing from his uncle; it strikes me as a way to protect his uncle, and that saddens me, for some reason. Not even old enough to inherit, and yet he must protect his family by enduring this alone now.

"I need you to try again, alright?" Cain continues. "Try again at the next meal."

This angers me. I do not like to be spoken to as if I require hand-holding and constant reassurance. "I am no child," I counter coldly, "to be reassured in such a manner."

"Then you should refrain from acting as such." Cain crosses his arms; his patience seems to have ended, and I am reminded that, for all his pretenses, he is only seventeen. "I understand if you're angry, but you have to stop taking it out on others. You must have been so much fun at Delilah."

(I have the irresistible urge to remind him who, exactly, is currently at risk of ex-sanguination. It is a testament to his peculiar agreement with fate, that he does not attempt to free himself, but instead displays his frustration with me. I suppose he thinks himself invincible.)

"Besides," he begins, "would it not be better to visit some animals instead of destroying things? Surely, you can't enjoy any of this?" He gestures to the broken mirror.

"And have them slaughtered after I grow fond of them?" It is less of a question, than a statement.

"I give you my word as a gentleman that I will not." He pauses in thought. "And if not for me, then do it for Ca—"

I can hardly stand to hear his name again; I am so weary of being reminded of the lives I have taken. "Tell me again how he died, and I will slit your damned, lying throat."

"I thought that was your intention," he remarks, with that effortlessly haughty tone of his. "Besides, I doubt you will kill me. You have had numerous opportunities to, and seized none." He pauses. "Something stilled your hand, and I want to know what it was."

"You want to know everything," I retort, stung by his unwanted, yet accurate analysis. "Will you only cease when you, like Cassandra, have feasted on my insides?" My blood drains from me with my words—

 _His phantom hands encircle my waist. His breath on my neck. "Why the long face, my Jezabel?" His hands search my body, crawling along the inside of my thighs as he slowly separates them, with a grin._

 _I give him only a haughty stare in response, partially out of anger and partially out of a refusal to humor him, in his mockery of what Father and I do._

 _Cassandra, apparently, does not relish the idea of seducing a statue. He strikes me so hard that I lose consciousness for a few seconds. Blood stains and stiffens the immaculate sheets. For a man who has seen my memories, he does not seem to understand that I am used to games of pain and power—and that his attempts pale next to Father's mastery. I resume my haughty stare, even as I hope that he will give in and leave me be. This will end in death for one of us, I think._

 _"This is entirely up to you, my Jezabel. How difficult you make this for us is up to you," he whispers. "My love is as cruel as you want it to be." He silences any remark I had planned with a hard kiss that leaves him breathless. "Remember, this is all your doing, my dearest."_

 _Shoving me against the bed, he tries to force my mouth open with a deceptively strong hand. "Have I told you," he begins, "about the horses I keep? I buy only the nastiest, vicious, proudest beasts, the ones that throw their riders to death. Breaking them is always such fun. The stronger the beast, the harder I break it." He grips my jaw so tightly that I wonder if I will have bruises later on. "Now, when I walk in the stables, they all tremble at my footsteps."_

 _I struggle against his weight, keeping my mouth closed, and he sighs paternally, before striking me again. There's blood on the curtains now. He pauses, slightly breathless, as he reconsiders his plan. His hands around my throat do not cause me to yield, not even when it leaves me lightheaded._

 _"You don't want me to use you badly," he warns, chest heaving with exertion. "I do not want that for you." He surveys me carefully, taking in the blood that lines my face, knowing that he can beat me and I will lose consciousness before I surrender. He shifts his weight slightly, before he clamps a hand on my nose; instinctively, I open my mouth to breathe, and in that moment, I realize that I have lost. With a look of concentration, he slips two fingers into my mouth, and at the sensation, I stop struggling, as a certain terror numbs me to everything but this. His fingers explore my mouth, and he moves them slowly towards the back of my throat, carefully testing my response._

 _At my face, made pale by fear, he grins again. "Very good. And I think we know who is master here." He removes his fingers with an air of satisfaction._

 _I know what comes next, and I know that he has won._

My grip on the shard feels distant and unreal, as if I am experiencing this secondhand, though someone else's body. I can barely stand now, my hand shaking so badly that if Cain moves, he will wound himself without any interference on my part. My pulse is racing, and I wonder if I will lose consciousness from my distress. I despise this vulnerability. Cain, in turn, closely watches my change in behavior, as if this has confirmed his suspicions. "You had some sort of carnal relations with him, didn't you? That's how Cassian ended up in Cassandra's body. He must have intervened somehow, and that was your reven—"

"Stop it!"

The shard no longer registers in my hand; I cannot feel anything. My heart stumbles in fear. I only realize that I have released him when I find myself several feet away from him, the shard clutched to my chest. He just stands there, immobile and helpless in a different way.

"Stop it."

I keep whispering it again and again, as if it is a talisman, as if I am condemned to speak the words I never could have. In the broken shards, we are splintered into forms I hardly recognize, each piece angry, chaotic, and alone. There is something akin to regret in Cain's eyes, as if he realizes that he has pushed too hard. He feels around his neck, examining his hand for any traces of blood, and I, in turn, realize that I have cut myself on the shard. There's blood on my hands again—that, at least, seems to be a constant.

"He made me this way," I say in a smaller, desperate voice. "It will never change. It will never be over." Half warning, half confession.

Cain hesitates. "Maybe he did. But it is in our power to be different than him." he pauses, as a memory rises, unbidden for him. Perhaps that of Riff's death. "People died for us, Jezabel. The least we can do is live." Desperation and pain cut at the edges of his words now.

"They had it easier. It is so easy to die." I cannot keep my angry, bitter tears from making themselves known. "What am I to do with this mess? What are any of us supposed to do?"

I try to dry my tears as quickly as they fall, but only succeed in smearing blood on my face. Just as Father remarked, I leave a trail of blood everywhere.

"You're bleeding," he remarks flatly. He exhales, overtaxed yet afraid. "Here, let me."

For a moment, I panic at the notion of his—or anyone's—touch, but to my surprise, he offers me his handkerchief instead. Wordlessly, I accept it. His scent has become oddly soothing—jasmine and something citrus. Bergamot perhaps.

We wait in silence, neither of us sure of our words now.

"I don't know what to do with what Father has left me," Cain continues, fidgeting with his cuff links. "I feel just as helpless as you probably do. I have the rest of my life to remember what he did to us. I-I used to be so angry that he had stolen my life. And then I found Mary. And I knew that I couldn't let her see me like that." He catches my gaze. "I was responsible, for the first time since Father killed my birds, for another life. This little girl who needed me to protect her and cherish her in the way that I never had been. Or at least, not by Father."

I press his handkerchief against the cuts in my hand, to stem the bleeding. I wonder at his words, if he truly believes them or if he, in his newfound loneliness, is trying to persuade himself.

"Maybe that the only thing we can do," he says, in a quieter tone.

"Forget? As if nothing ever happened?"

"No, live. Despite everything."

I am not so easily convinced.

"Father wanted us to live in fear. Isn't it better to live in whatever happiness we are allowed?"

"I want to be done with this entire affair. I hate it." I hesitate, before my words spill out, faster than I can consider them. "Everything I do, everything I see is irrevocably tainted by him. There is nothing without him." What keeps me here? Cain is correct in his assessment, but that brings me no answers. It is not for Cassian, nor Cain, nor Father. It's not loyalty to Father, nor a fear of God. (I learned a long, long time ago that Father was far more terrifying in his love than any God could be.) It's not hope, for I learned that such an emotion is a dangerous one to have. I'm no longer afraid of what must come after this life, for I have known my final destination for over ten years: the worms and the fires of Hell.

His gaze falls to the shard that I cannot relinquish.

"Is that truly what you want?" Cain asks, a terrible weariness to his face. (His hand on mine is too heavy a weight.)

"Is there another option?" The abject tone of my voice pains me. "I have ruined everything. I cannot live apart from Father, and I cannot bear the thought of—" I cannot breathe. Men touching my body, as they wish. Endless questions, probing for answers I cannot give because I cannot voice them. My silence will be taken as yet another sign of my insanity in a vicious loop, as will every action I do or do not take.

"I'll talk with Uncle Neil, but you might have to tell him too, at some point." Cain pauses, weighing his next words. "Don't judge him too harshly. He just wants what's best for the family. In his own way, he considers that kinder than forcing you to cope in a world you cannot."

"It is not kinder," I counter, bitterly. "What is the use of being apart from Father if I only end up in another cage?"

Cain exhales again. "It won't come to that."

There is a resolve in his tone that proves oddly comforting. And I know now, the reasoning behind his actions. It is not only for Riff's memory that he re-enacts what Riff must have done for him with me, but also for himself—to finally set aside the part of his life in which he was helpless and dependent. It's not dissimilar to Cassian's motives. And because of that, I know with a strange certainty that he will not treat me in the same way that Father did. He has as much to lose as I. I think, at the back of my mind, I have always known this. It is why I have been unconsciously testing him.

"We do need to figure out alternatives for you to settle down," he remarks. "It will be remarkably difficult to convince Uncle Neil, if you carry on like this."

I say nothing, trying to still the trembling in my hands. Willing my heart to settle into its predictable rhythm. I do not know how to explain the terrible chaos that runs in my blood, and this entire affair is uncomfortable; I do not enjoy talking about myself—unless, of course, it is to remind Cain of all that his life has cost me.

He watches me, worried at my silence. "Come now, you could visit the horses. I can show you the stables in the morning."

I hesitate. Again, he asks so much of me, that I trust him—the boy who has everything at my expense. I'm so weary of hating him, but what else is there? I cannot claim any feelings of brotherly devotion for him; no, not I. I spent too long in his shadow, watching Father destroy everyone in pursuit of him.

"Alright," I agree, reluctantly.

* * *

I awaken in the pleasant space between morning and night, when the birds whistle to each other and the air is cool and sweet. The sound of my door unlocking brings a quick wave of terror, until I remember where I am. I wonder at who might want to see me at this hour, and my heart sinks at this line of thought. No doubt, Cain has come, furtively, to appease the family curse, after trying to win me over with his sweet promises. Just like Father. I curse myself for being so naive, to believe his words.

(If I pretend to be asleep, I can avoid the worst parts.)

At rustling of skirts and tapping of someone clearly trying to disguise her presence, I cannot contain my curiosity. Mary stands before me, thoughtfully examining the now-wilted roses. In her arms are blossoms: ranunculi, with their tight petals; lily of the valley, its six bell-shaped flowers swaying; a fistful of forsythia; and pink heather. No one will accuse her of adhering to a color scheme, but the end result is somehow harmonious. When she realizes that I am also awake, she gasps in shock, and her eyes widen; to her credit, she quickly masks her alarm, with the guise of a well-born English woman.

"Oh, you're awake." She moves the bouquet slightly, as if to draw my attention towards it and away from her. "I brought you some flowers." Underneath her light, conversational tone is the unmistakable tremble of fear. It's a testament to her stubborn streak that she refuses to bolt.

"Why?" I ask flatly.

"Because I thought you might want some flowers. They always make me happy when I'm sad."

I test her resolve with a cold stare. She shifts the bouquet from one arm to the other, but holds her ground with an even stare of her own. It appears we are evenly matched in stubbornness, and I cross my arms, annoyed that I cannot bully her but strangely pleased. Mary breaks our standstill, as she begins to replace the wilted roses with her back towards me. It's less a gesture of bravery than it is one of defiance. When she has finished, she lightly sweeps aside some fallen petals with an air of satisfaction.

"There," she remarks, half to herself.

'Why? Why are you doing this?" I repeat, wary of her intentions.

Mary pauses, her head tilted as she carefully considers her audience. "The little boy told me to. Only he's not a little boy. He's—" She stamps her little foot in frustration. "I told him not to play with knives, that he would get hurt, and he laughed at me."

This cannot be true. I could bear anything but this.

She recognizes my unasked question, and wrings her hands. "He was out in the garden. He showed up a few times, and he wanted to know how you were doing. I think his name is Ca—"

"You're lying," I interrupt, having finally found my voice. My heart trembles at the words I cannot bear to hear. This was not supposed to happen.

Unconditional love is a falsehood.

Mary startles and twists her starched pinafore out of unease. Her eyes dart towards the exit, as if reassuring herself. "No, I'm not," she retorts, with a childish, wronged air. "He told me to put the flowers from the garden in your room, that it might makes you feel better." She stares at me, as if challenging me to say otherwise, before continuing. "He said I ought not judge you too harshly because Father did many horrible things to you, that I couldn't understand until I was older."

There are unspoken accusations in her tone: the death of that girl, my attempted murder of her. With a sudden horror, I wonder if I have damaged her in the way that Father damaged me, if the cycle continues in her through my actions. But I do not wonder for too long on this—what dominates my mind is the notion that Cassian, despite everything, returned to me in death to finish what he could not in life. An almost nauseating sense of anticipation and apprehension rises in me: I want to apologize for what Father did, I want that almost-violent banter that signaled a sort of camaraderie.

"Is he still there? In the garden?"

She shakes her head. "I haven't seen him in a few days now."

As easily as that desperate hope comes, it departs, with a dull, undulating ache to mark its leaving. Of course not. I am the one left behind again, the one who learns too late. I draw the covers more tightly around me. It seems that fate has chosen to keep us apart again; I always miss him somehow. An urge to hurt her, to make her suffer as I do, rises in me: a cold calculation of how easily I could open her throat, even now. She, in her little white dress, as pretty as a doll, with her golden hair and her untarnished mind. She has her entire future before her, a life that will never know the fires of devotion and pain. After all, as Father once told me after one of my punishments, the Lord speaks to us in pain and thunder.

Cain's words, however, still my hand.

She must notice my disappointment, for she softens. "Did you love him?" she asks, a curious look on her face.

I pause. "He was my only... He was the only person I cared for." And I didn't understand just how far gone I was, until he was dying in my arms and I knew that my fear and hatred and jealousy had blinded me to the longing of my heart. That I had mistook his gruffness for dislike and his nagging for superiority. Someone once told me that the past is the most difficult to relinquish, but I find that it is the futures that will never be: the many turns my life could have taken that exist only in my fantasies.

Clever girl that she is, Mary immediately picks up on my use of the past tense, but says nothing on it. "He must have really liked you. He says that he tried to contact you, but you couldn't see him. And that I was the only one who could see him."

I wonder at the flashes of Cassian I saw. Was that him or the fragments of my lonely mind? I suspect I will never know.

"He wanted to remind you that he loved you."

I shake my head, mutely.

She watches me. "He did," she insists.

Taking a seat across from me, she folds her hands in a practiced motion. Her little feet hang above the floor. I remember how light she is, how easy it was to take her with me.

"I suppose," she begins delicately, "that we are to be a family now?"

There is a hesitation and hunger to her words, and I wonder at this child, so desperate for a family that she snuck into the room of her almost-murderer to bring him flowers. Judging from the quick turnaround of flowers in my room, she must have done this more than once, perhaps since my arrival here. It saddens me, in a way that I had never thought possible. I see her feverish longing mirrored in myself—or at least in how I used to be, always awaiting Father's return.

(I wonder if this is how Cassian felt, as he told me about his past.)

"I suppose so," I reply, unconvincingly.

She smiles, but it does not reach her eyes, which are still dark with worry and contemplation. Questions she can't—or won't—ask. "What was Father like?" She twists the decapitated rose stem as if it is wool to spin into thread; the absentminded work of her hands betrays her nervousness from either my presence or anticipation of the answer. At the sight of its ruined beauty, I regret destroying it.

I almost refuse to give her an answer, largely because I do not know, but I sense that this is something she needs to hear from me. "He was a wicked man," I begin at last. "He was wicked, and I loved him as I have loved no other. He was the closest to God for me."

Pangs of disloyalty strike my heart, but I know truly, truly now what I did not. For all his wickedness, however, I still cannot relinquish the memories of his smiles, his embrace, his smell of musty pages and fire. That will always be as precious to me as the man he pretended to be. I know that now. But I think, that I can live whatever remains in the life that he bequeathed me, regardless of his intentions. ( _I... love you._ Maybe, at the end, he regretted all he had done, knowing that only death could still his murderous hand.) Our love was a one-sided devotion: he treated me with disdain, knowing that I would never leave him. Not even as he killed my life's work, not even as he gave me, gleefully, into the hands of a man he knew would use me wrongly. Not even as he tried to rob me of my very being, knowing that I would never resist him. I never could.

Mary waits for me to continue, her mouth set in grim determination to hear the rest.

"He was cruel and wicked, and all I wanted from him was his love. And he thought me a fool for it."

"He killed the little boy," she confirms.

I nod, trying to suppress the images. I tilt slightly away from her, arms crossed, uncomfortable with the knowledge that she is carefully weighing me and my words. Despite the morning light, her eyes remain the color of a forest stream, unfathomable, ancient, and cold. Like the eyes of a bird.

"He said you like birds." Her slight hesitation announces her disbelief that I am capable of enjoying anything beyond blood and organs. At this point, I can hardly blame her; that's all she knows of me.

"I used to feed them."

She pauses, as she tries to reconcile this revelation with her opinion of me—which I strongly suspect is not flattering. "What kind?"

"Common sparrows."

"He said you looked like an angel."

I almost laugh. That Cassian would call me an angel testifies to his deep, inexplicable infatuation with me: if I am any angel, it is an angel of death, perhaps. Or one of those terrifying creatures from the Book of Revelations.

"He would say that," I reply.

"Do you like the birds here?"

I shrug. "I haven't seen them yet."

"Are you going to hurt the birds here?"

I suspect we are no longer discussing actual birds now.

"Do you think that I will hurt them?"

"Maybe," she admits. "The little boy said you hurt my friends because Father made you." Another pause, as she draws up the courage to voice her fears. "And Brother said you wouldn't hurt any of us, but I think you _like_ hurting things." The last part is no more than a whisper, but it falls as heavy as iron between us.

As little as a week ago, I would agree with her statement, but I know what I did not then. I could deny that, at that time, I enjoyed the scent of fresh blood and viscera, but she would easily see through my lies. I could blame my actions on Father's influence, but that is not the whole truth. I did it because nothing compares to the sense of power and satisfaction that came from replicating the terror and helplessness of my everyday life in another. I wonder if she has been sorting through all these conflicting reports about me, just as I have been doing in Father's absence. Trying to understand why.

It occurs to me, that I must tell her the words I was never allowed to hear. It alone won't set things to right between us, but it is something only I can do. "I'm sorry," I manage, stiffly. "What I did was wrong." I do not recall the last time I apologized to anyone, let alone one of my victims. It does not sit well with me.

"She was my friend," Mary states flatly, tears in her eyes. "She was my friend, and she smashed her face in the mirror because of what you did to her." Her hands curl into fists on her pinafore. "I look in the mirror now, and sometimes, sometimes I feel _them_ sliding behind my eyes." She chokes on her tears, lapsing into a silence punctured by wracking sobs.

Watching her weep in front of me produces a strange sort of emotion—not quite concern, not quite sympathy, not quite regret. She reminds me of my sisters, in that they must have been around her age when they died. (When Father killed them, and I ate them. _Take, eat; this is my body._ ) She cries into her pinafore for a while, as I watch, unsure of what I feel towards her. Despite my apology, part of me enjoyed the way she writhed in fear in the cage above the parasites, and that part would gladly repeat such an act. But now, I am beginning to understand myself not as a whole, but a series of conflicting parts: the lost boy, the cruel murderer, the heartless experimenter on men, the lover of animals, the devoted son. They are all equally I.

I consider it highly unlikely she might be infested with the parasites, as they would have hatched several months ago at the latest, but I keep that to myself. "That's a serious concern," I agree. "Do you want to know how I treat parasitical infestations?"

This breaks her trance. She carefully looks up from the sodden mess she has made, and hesitates, as she attempts to determine my trustworthiness. A little rabbit then, daring to hope and yet, irreparably fearful. I give her the recipe for an innocuous, yet unpleasant tea: a true anti-parasitic medicine would sicken her considerably. "I'll make a batch for myself, and if you'd like, you may have some." There. Unless she believes me mad enough to poison myself out of spite—which, truthfully, I might have done earlier, with very little hesitation—that should quiet her fears. I conceal my distaste at the notion of actually drinking it, but if it will allow her to trust me, then it will be bearable.

She says nothing, but I can tell that this has had an effect on her. She turns to leave, wiping her eyes with her sleeve. At the door, she pauses, one final question on her lips.

"Do you ever miss him?"

"Sometimes."

With that, she leaves, deep in contemplation. I suspect that she will always be slightly wary of me, not matter what I do. This insurmountable divide will always remain, despite my efforts.

* * *

I have only a small reprieve, before Cain drags me down to breakfast. If Neil is surprised to see me again, he does not show it, instead acknowledging Cain and I with a curt nod; I wonder if this gruffness is typical of him. While Neil preoccupies himself with the contents of today's headlines, Cain and I help ourselves to the contents of the breakfast table. We have a brief, largely silent struggle over what he wants me to eat and what I feel capable of. In the end, we reach a compromise: a boiled egg and some toast for me, and what I gather is the usual fare of toast, egg, and sausage for him.

We return to the table, and Cain joins Neil in eating. I, however, stall again, by preparing some tea for myself. In the ensuing silence, I begin a delicate pantomime: moving my teacup around, stirring its contents excessively, contemplating the merits of each jam. I have continued this for several minutes, before a look of tired frustration from Cain announces that he has caught onto my charade. I glower back, defiantly, daring him to force me. We exchange stares, neither of us willing to budge on our respective positions. Out of sudden spite, I start on the egg, breaking its shell easily with the edge of the knife.

To my surprise, Cain smiles, showing a glimmer of his old self-satisfaction, and I realize that he has goaded me into eating again. Almost a week of pleading with me, and yet what succeeds is a childish push. I cannot keep myself from chuckling. How clever of him to use my spite and stubbornness against me. It is not unlike something Cassian might try.

(I cannot remember the last time I laughed. )

"You are the most childish man I've ever met," I manage.

He replies wordlessly with another smug smile.

Neil watches the both of us over his teacup, as if unsure what to make of our secret language, and settles for shaking the newspaper in the curiously English way of announcing that he has finished with it and now wishes to discuss its contents.

"Remember Lord Gladstone? The fellow who disappeared right after that public scandal?" Neil shakes his head. "There were rumors that he had escaped to the colonies."

"America?" I make sure to keep my voice as neutral as possible, but I am intrigued at the idea of learning about what Cassian did with his borrowed body.

"India. As a fortune hunter."

I frown. Cassian hardly seems the type to have taken to India.

Neil continues. "Turns out he was in London the entire time. They just uncovered the body."

A certain sort of lightheadedness comes over me at the thought of Cassian's body misidentified for eternity as the man he despised.

"Are they certain it's that of Lord Gladstone?" Cain watches me closely, an unasked question on his lips, and I realize that Neil has not been privy to the entire story. _Well_.

"Very." Neil sets down the newspaper, his conversational air disappearing. "I received a telegraph that your father's body has also been recovered. I had to pull some favors to keep _that_ revelation out of the papers."

Cain pales slightly. "Father? They found Father?"

"They want to conduct an autopsy—a clandestine one, of course—to determine cause of death."

Cain and I exchange worried glances that do not go unnoticed by Neil.

"Of course, if either one of you knows what happened," he remarks carefully, "now is the time to elucidate me on the matter." The implication that Cain's version of what occurred does not suffice hangs among us.

I shrug, but secretly, I am curious as to what will ruled the cause of Father's death. Ex-sanguination? Blunt trauma from the collapsing tower? Neil, on the other hand, looks slightly perturbed at his inability to obtain any new information, but English manners dictate that he says nothing on the matter. I decide to shift the conversation back to Cassian. "Where will they bury Lord Gladstone? He died disgraced." It feels strange to refer to him by his title, but using his given name would draw too much attention.

"The Gladstone estate, though under investigations for criminal charges, is not insignificant." Neil shakes the newspaper again, searching for the relevant section. "And the manner in which he died was highly suspect."

Oh. I had never considered that anyone outside of Delilah might happen on Cassian's body.

Neil catches my look of worried contemplation. "You're certainly interested in this affair."

"I was trained as a physician. Sordid affairs interest me." Unfortunately, I have just opened myself up to further questioning, and Neil seizes his chance.

"Do tell, what use did Alexis have of a physician?"

I briefly contemplate telling him the whole affair, but realize that it sounds far too fantastical to be believable—as if I had read one too many penny dreadfuls and then had a fever dream. Besides, it all feels so distant now, as if everything had happened to someone I know only in passing. A stranger, even. "It is a human tendency to fall ill. And when one is in hiding, one can ill-afford to be indiscreet." My cryptic answer does not fully satisfy his questions, but he relents, for now.

Cain, mercifully, changes the conversation. "So, Lord Gladstone is to be buried in the family plot?'

"It appears so."

I catch his eye, and confirm from his slight nod that we are to embark on a grave-robbing endeavor soon. Most likely after he has been interred and the soil is still loose. It will be easy to blame the theft of the body on a disgruntled vigilante. (We truly are Father's sons, after all.) I cannot keep myself from smiling slightly.

Neil just shakes his head at the both of us, resigned to the fact that he has another wayward, utterly incorrigible nephew. I'll bet he thought Cain was a handful. "There's an opening in the village," Neil remarks, slowly. " Doctor Muir is retiring, and his apprentice isn't up to the task of taking on the practice. It's close enough that you could practice at the village and stay here. If you want it."

I cannot make up my mind at the implications. This must have been part of a carefully negotiated compromise. Close enough to keep watch on me, and yet, allowing me the chance to prove him wrong. It strikes me as terribly clever. I wonder just how much Cain told him to convince him, but I suspect he wouldn't tell me even if I asked.

Loneliness returns to me, in the face of what is to be my new life, my life without Father, without Cassian, without Delilah. It pains me that all I have left of Cassian is the body of the man he despised, but I am too late, as always. I wish I could have interacted with him as a spirit, but he has moved on; no seance will summon him back. I suspect that Cain is assisting me with laying Cassian's body to its rightful resting place, in part because he cannot do the same for Riff.

I miss Cassian, but I have to make the best of his final gift. Living is the hardest task of all, for all I know is what I have lost. The uncertainty frightens me beyond any horror I have known. It occurs to me that I still have the option of escaping life itself at any time I choose, on my own terms. It, however, proves not as appealing as it used to be. Somehow, everything changed, as it is liable to do, and I do not desire my own end as I used to. I cannot call it joy nor peace, but rather a treacherous hope.

"I do want it," I reply, at last.

As I return to breakfast, I almost miss Cain's small smile of approval. He, however, characteristically says nothing more on it, instead remarking, "I forget, have you seen the garden yet?"

"No," I reply.

"You should go see it after breakfast, then. The gardeners have worked all year on it."

I know this, for I have seen the garden from my window, but to go there? I muse a little on it. In these quiet moments of an unfeigned domesticity, a certain calm comes over me, and I know that I am no longer afraid of the life that remains.

* * *

 **Notes:**  
Originally, this was planned to be a nice, quiet chapter of quiet talks and reconciliation, and then I asked myself if I wanted that. I did not. This is the chapter where I completely diverged from the outline, which is why it look so long. The ending still stays the same, but the path to get there changed. Slightly. There's one chapter that was added.  
Fun fact: I used to have nightmares about being trapped in a house that never ended, and that inspired part of this chapter.  
And the implied grave-robbing at the end is a throwback to the very first chapter of _Count Cain_. I could not resist.  
As always, thank you for continuing to read. I would love to hear from you, if you'd like!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes:**

Hi again, dearest readers. Are you ready for the final chapters? Thank you for sticking with me as far as you did. I also rewrote significant parts of the last chapter, because I was unhappy with them.  
Warnings: one discussion of torture in the first section; one scene of traumatic violence (did you think we were done with the violence? Nope, never) and one scene of morally questionable content in the second section. You all knew it was coming.

* * *

 _Cain_

The next day, I busy myself with the task of dressing myself, again reminded of Riff's absence. It has changed, from the twist of a knife to a boundless, low ache. We should have had many more years together. As high society dictates, I require a valet to attend to me, but I cannot bear replacing Riff. Not now. Perhaps not ever.

My brother has left early for his work at the hospital, and so breakfast is strangely melancholy. Perhaps I should check on Mary afterwards, take her out to the village or anywhere she wants, if only to alleviate the worry and sorrow in our spirits. I take my breakfast with a heavy heart.

"Have you posted the listing in the village yet," Neil inquires over his newspaper in a tone of feigned nonchalance. Reminding me to abandon a past he knows little about. I conceal my irritation at him, even as I know that he only wants the best for me. Love is a terribly complicated emotion for me; hopefully as I grow older, I will become more accustomed to it.

I find my brother in the midst of the quiet of the village hospital, absentmindedly writing something down. Briefly, I catch a painfully illegible order for five grams of nitre and half a teaspoon of ammonia acetate in barley water. I had always thought of him as a monster whose sole aim was to destroy my life, but now, seeing how naturally he blends into the hospital, I realize he, like Riff, has some part of his life that I will never know. This inability to never truly know another pains me, this limitation of the flesh. How much of Riff is lost to me now?

Jezabel's opaque expression vanishes when he recognizes me. He hands off the order to a nurse. "Holding court so soon? The London season is not yet done."

I smile wryly. "London is not really in any shape to celebrate." I glance at the nearby hospital beds. "How has the morning been?"

"One surgery and this." He pulls back the white curtain: lying pallid on the bed is a girl, no more than eleven years old, or so. She stirs at the rush of air, but does not protest. "It's scarlet fever," he whispers in a tone that announces his slight boredom rather than sympathy. "Note the flushed face, the white swellings on her tongue. Definitely scarlet fever."

"Isn't it catching?"

He shrugs. "Only if you're not careful. There's little chance of my catching it; I've already had it."

I return to the sight of the trembles of the little girl. She murmurs something in her delirium, and I fight the urge to comfort her; she reminds me of Mary. "Will she live?"

"She might. Any number of things might happen. She might have brain damage if her fever intensifies. But she will die if the fluid is not removed from her lungs."

My heart stills at the mess of tubes he produces; with a knowing grin, he revels in my discomfort, reminding me just how different we are: I cannot sever myself so easily from humanity, as he has, despite my efforts.

"It doesn't hurt that much. I used to have it done to me all the time when I was younger."

"Really?"

"My lungs didn't work the way they ought to." He trails off, as something dark moves across his face.

I sense that I ought not to press the matter further, particularly given that we are in a public setting and I do not want to accidentally provoke him into murder.

Jezabel waits for my remark, with a grim, yet defiant set to his face, as if wanting to challenge me on something. Finding nothing, he busies himself with the care of the little girl, retreating into the fog of his mind. His display still unnerves me at how quickly he can experience an entire range of emotion and then nothing.

My newfound sympathy for him, however, is superceded by my concern for the girl, whose feeble breath comes in low gasps and rattles. I try to imagine how it must feel, to be literally drowning in one's own lungs.

With a practiced hand, Jezabel stabs the needle into her body; the connecting tube fills with an opaque liquid, but I cannot turn away. Just when I think he must be draining her of her lungs as well, he stops and carefully retrieves the needle, pressing a thin wad of gauze against the puncture mark to prevent significant bruising. He then casts a dull eye over her, no doubt to confirm that her heart has not stopped during the procedure.

"There," he remarks in a disappointed tone. "Still alive."

My relief overtakes my anger at his lack of empathy, and I exhale the breath I had been keeping in my worry. Somehow, Mary has made me more aware of the frailties of the human condition in a way that I never was. Disease knows no class lines, and should she fall under an unlucky star, it might be her there next. (The cynic in my mind, however, reminds me that Mary, as a member of aristocracy, has better living conditions than even the most well-off of my tenants. Disease may be blind, but it is also opportunistic.)

Disinterested in the human condition, Jezabel closes his tiny patient's curtains and discusses her condition with another nurse. A woman, whose worried face suggests that she is her mother, looks on. I move to comfort her.

"Mrs. Cornforth, I presume?" I begin, recognizing her from one of the many trips to the village Riff took me on, to familiarize me with the people whose lives I, as the next Earl, am responsible for.

She smiles worriedly, rising to her feet in my presence. "Earl."

"My brother is highly skilled at his work. Your daughter will be right as rain in a few days."

"Thank you, milord," she says quietly. "Emily is my youngest. It gave me such a fright to hear her so. And her fever hasn't broken, not in the slightest."

"All will be well," I insist and hope that I am correct in my prediction.

As soon as Jezabel is free, I catch his attention. "Emily will live, will she not?"

At his slight confusion at my question, I realize that she is just another human being to him; he did not even bother to learn her name. "Why shouldn't she?" he replies at last, slightly bemused.

I say nothing on the matter, instead motioning to the outside with my cane. "Care to join me?"

He shrugs, and we take a quiet stroll though the village: he seems only vaguely interested in the tenants, but his face softens when a stray cat crosses our path. He strokes its head for so long that I am tempted to leave him there, but his gentle, seemingly out-of-place expression of compassion and tenderness captivates me. It vanishes when he spots me, and I am reminded once again of how fractured he truly is. Nothing, save time perhaps, can change this. What Father has wrought cannot be so easily undone.

With a look of longing and loss, he ushers the cat away, lost in his own head again. When we pass the apothecary, he starts to make a remark on it, likely to remind me how inadequate it is compared to Delilah's resources, but pauses when he spots the leather journal in my coat pocket, no doubt immediately recognizing it as Riff's.

"Have you posted a listing for a new valet?" he asks quietly. "I'm certain Neil will want a replacement soon."

I shake my head, unable to voice the latest fears to take up residence in my mind. We move past the bustling of the villagers, feeling out of place in their simple worries and lives. As we reach the little lake that borders two farms, Jezabel decides to answer my unspoken question.

"Riff can't come back. It's impossible."

"But you did it before. You used a finger bone to make Michaela. You could use the ashes to make Riff a new body."

He shakes his head. "We had a fresh corpse, albeit singed, and a ready supply of organs. Although Riffael did inhabit the body again, Riff was entirely an invention. Something born from hypnosis and powerful drugs. Do you know how difficult that would be to replicate?" He pauses, amending the harshness in his tone for something quieter, albeit still frustrated. "We might get a mindless abomination, like what you saw at Delilah, or even worse, a spirit with no connection to the original body, as with Michaela. And hypnosis, inevitably, wears off."

"There's a chance. It might work, and then you could simply make Riff again, the way you did the first time."

Something akin to pity moves across his face. "It would not work. You're better off thinking of him as dead."

My throat clenches at this thought, this thought of finally surrendering Riff. "But I can't," I whisper. "Can't you see? I can't let him go."

Jezabel gives me a long, calculating look, any semblance of pity long gone. "Are you willing to murder for him then? Because that is what such an act entails. Every few months, someone _will_ die to provide your darling Riff with fresh organs. You can use all the processed cow's blood you desire, but organs are one aspect that you _cannot_ negotiate."

"No one has to die," I counter. "I'll find a way. I'll ruin the family name, if I must. Just allow me this."

For some reason, this infuriates him. "No," he retorts. "I will not. I spent years of my life in service to your father who thought only of that damnable woman. Augusta. The woman who whispered in his ear to make her anew. And for what?" Again, there are unspoken accusations, always unspoken, because for our new-found relationship, the near past is still too raw and unbearable, and I do not want to be the one to push too hard. He becomes coldly silent in his anger and turns his back on me. "Your father also never cared much about anyone else, besides himself and his phantom."

Even if I wanted to argue the recent events of the past, his revelation has made me speechless and occupies my thoughts, now that I know what Father desired: to bring Aunt Augusta back into this world. There is a madness to it, yet also a desperation that haunts me in its familiarity. My blood thickens from fear: have I, in all my endeavors, merely been replicating Father's actions? How much of my being is truly mine, and how much is the work of something older than I and Father—and more sinister in its promises? His comparison to Father stings me—and brings me quiet terror in that he alone voices what I have come to suspect is true: that I am irrevocably tainted by the blood that runs in my veins and the prayers in my mind.

"He's your father too," I reply, more sharply than I intend. Fear makes me crueler than I am, and I am weary of the his attempts to blame me for everything, for I had no hand in what befell him.

"No, he was _always_ yours." Underneath the ever-present bitterness, there is a despondency to his words, that speaks of a loss that I have never known.

"I couldn't help being born." I cannot keep the defensiveness out of my voice. I still cannot fathom how anyone—let alone any sensible person!—could pine after the love of a madman, particularly after witnessing firsthand what such a love entails. If anything, he should be thankful that Father left him alone for most of his life, instead of having to endure constant schemes to tear it apart, knowing that the very nature of luck is that it will eventually run out. Still, what we cannot have is the most alluring, and I wonder if this is less about love than it is validation and being wanted.

"Neither could I, but I still ended up with the raw deal."

A foolhardy, impossible idea comes into my mind. "Then take the damned title. I've never wanted it. I'll get Uncle Neil to sign the adoption papers, and then you can experience all the joys of being watched constantly for the slightest slip-up."

Although he is momentarily taken aback, he quickly regains his composure. "That would never stand."

"Please. We're Hargreaves. The last time the family did something by the books, it was in 1780, when we were titled." I pause, taking in his apprehensive demeanor. "Uncle Neil cannot deny me this. I'm fairly well-known as the black sheep of the family, and you resemble Mary enough that it would be easy to pass you off as a full relation. You'll have to give up being a physician, and settle for the dull life of Parliament every summer. And cut your hair, and find a wife as soon as possible. Shouldn't been too difficult, as long as you don't murder her."

"Neil would never allow it," he counters.

"He will. If I want it, then he will. Or I will go to the newspapers with a particularly lurid story." I catch his eye. "And you know what I speak of."

He laughs unkindly. "You think you're the first to try to blackmail your own family? He'll have you thrown in the asylum if only to preserve the family honor."

"Then you'll have some company."

He seems to give it some consideration, and for a moment, I wonder if I have just managed to escape my societal responsibilities—the fate I was groomed for; I do not know just how I feel about this. On one hand, it is liberating, on the other, a loss. Then he shakes his head in response to whatever he has decided.

"Well, think it over," I continue. "If you give it up, then you do so of your own choice."

This seems to have an effect on him, though what precisely I cannot tell. We lapse into silence, as we cross the bridge, returning to the village. I pause, noting how some of the tenants, the Drake family, is constructing a new fence. One of them notices me, tipping his cap, and I nod in acknowledgement. This small-scale governing is what awaits me when I come of age, provided that Jezabel does not accept my offer: checking on the tenants, ensuring that the land is well-used, that the family home is maintained. Less exciting than my current life, honestly. I turn to remark on the plans of the next tenants—but my brother is gone. Frantic energy fills me, as visions of bloodstained tenants, lying in their own intestines, come to mind.

I quickly spot him nearby, having paused where I moved on, but my relief is short-lived. Jezabel has gone so white that I think he will faint or vomit. I cannot understand what is occurring: there is nothing out of the ordinary here. Nothing of Father nor Delilah. Just fog-soaked farmland. He clutches his forehead, as the hammer continues to ring, and with a pang of terror, I realize that he must be reliving what happened with Father—the leucotomy, I think he called it. Fear rises in me, at the notion if I draw his attention, he might mistake me for Father and slit my throat for it. For all my intentions of leaving the past, I have not forgotten how easily he kills; fear of him remains a constant companion of mine. Helplessness returns to me, and it is not a sensation I relish.

"Come now," I try. "There's nothing the matter. That was the past, and this is now."

This produces a change, albeit not particularly the one I want. "That is so damned typical of you," he retorts, slightly breathless from what I can only surmise is fear.

"You and I choose our paths. We cannot be bound to the past."

He looks if he wants to respond with something particularly nasty, but as he grasps for the right words, he vomits instead, fear overruling malice. It seems to require all his strength and concentration to remain standing, as he shakes and heaves.

Nausea rises in me at the sight, even as I wonder how a common sound can produce such a reaction. But I can surmise how it must feel, to be violently reminded of the past by an innocuous word, sound, or sight. I, after all, have an irrational hatred of petunias now. And I can guess what goes unsaid hangs between us: that I, in the end, was the wanted one, no matter how indispensable he tried to make himself. I shuffle slightly in my guilt. I've woken up in a terrible state from dreams that Father chose me and not Cassian. The sharp, repetitive digs, as the instrument advances into my skull and slowly severs my mind from my being. The helplessness and the terror. From what I witnessed, it is not a quick process. I wonder, if I had remained bound, would Father have done the same to me? I grow weak-kneed at the thought, but fortunately Jezabel takes no notice of my state.

"I suppose there's nothing to be done about this, is there?"

"Probably not. Unless you plan on finishing the task," he replies, bitterly. He steadies himself against the trunk of an oak, still trembling and still pale with terror.

"I have no intention."

"Of course not."

As I wait for him to collect himself, I notice just how lively the farmlands are. The staccato grumblings of an elusive bird stand out from the high-pitched, avian gossip in the trees beyond the trail. A red-breasted robin eyes me warily, before darting back to rejoin the conversation. Trembling in the fallow fields reveals nothing, not even a chipmunk.

While I wonder what might have caused such a thing, Jezabel searches in his pockets, eventually producing some bread to my slight surprise. I'm still unused to the bizarre way he can change from one intense emotion to nothing, but this's different, somehow. It's not the vacant look he sometimes has, the one that frightens me for how often it seems to precede something awful, but a softer one. He proceeds to carefully crumble it, and from the eager darting of the birds, I realize that this has already become habitual for them—and I cannot resist a little bit of brotherly teasing.

"Have you already charmed the birds? It's like I'm with a fairy princess," I whisper, tauntingly. "Well, now, I know your secret—the murderous doctor who goes out to feed the birds."

"I'm not the one with a penchant for cross dressing," he retorts, quietly, as he scatters the crumbs.

I seethe for a bit. "Well, it convinced you, so my skills must not be entirely useless." I turn to the birds again. With little hops and bounds, they divide up the offering, as solemn as English gentlemen, before returning to their perch. In our brotherly banter, I have almost forgotten everything that has occurred: all the blood, and death and violence of it all. What a curious feeling.

I can only hope it lasts.

* * *

 _Jezabel_

 _I'm twelve again, and men hold me immobile for the surgery I no longer want. The stiff smell of surgical disinfectant terrifies me with the knowledge that I will soon be cut open. I choke with fear. I have read reports of people who die from anesthesia, from infection, from the very act of surgery itself. I cannot do this, not even for Father's approval. The black-and-white pictures in the medical textbooks tell me what waits for me._

 _One of the black-robed men tries to reason with me, that it will only be a matter of falling asleep and waking up better, but I know the truth. I may never wake up again. It's a fairly common occurrence, and no one will think any more on it, but I want to see Snark again._

 _The wide leather straps—and the syringe! Against my feeble protests and against my failing body. The lead physician advances with the syringe, whose contents will darken my world. I plead with him, but he only fumbles with my arm, probing the exposed skin for a suitable vein. Pressing on my flesh._

 _Tears blur my vision, as I beg him to stop, to leave me be. Fear numbs me, even as it heightens my sensitivity to touch. I don't want to die, not without Snark. If Father was here, he would surely protect me, I know it!_

 _The physician, however, merely tells me to cease my unsightly display, that I should be brave. Someone places a hand over my mouth and—_

In the darkness, there's screaming again, just like when Father died. There's screaming, and I cannot ascertain its origins. There is screaming, and I am clutching at myself as if that will prevent what has already been done. I am alone in the darkness, but always in the company of ghosts. A fumbling at the door, and Father takes me by the shoulders, desperately pleading with me to tell me what is the matter. His night robe hangs haphazardly off one slender shoulder, as if he dressed in a rush. His eyes golden-green in the remnants of the moonlight.

No, it's only Cain.

He relinquishes his grasp on me, his breath quick from alarm. "You had a night terror," he explains, as if I were not already aware of the matter. "I heard you screaming, I thought—"

I merely turn to the wall, my chest heaving from the exhaustion of it all. I hadn't dreamt about that for years, but now it is as clear and coherent as my memories of yesterday.

(Was that my voice? Were those my screams?)

I shake my head, still unable to speak. He moves to grasp my hand, but I pull it away, out of reach, unable to voice the painful oversensitivity of my skin now. Acutely aware of far too many sensations, I curl on myself. At this, he seemed pained, but says nothing on the divide that remains between us. Between humanity and I. The under-butler peeks in the doorway, offering his assistance, and Cain impatiently waves him away. From the man's lingering glance, I know with a sinking realization that one of us will have to explain this away to Neil in the morning. (How many more incidences like this do I have before he decides against me?)

A few moments of fumbling, and Cain extinguishes the dark, lighting the bedside candle. Sallow flickers sharpen the room, distorting the striped wallpaper. The harshness of the light darkens his ordinarily delicate face, and I have almost lost myself in his features when his small gasp diverts my attention.

There's blood on the sheets.

Disinterested, I search for the cause of it all. Judging from the position on the sheets, it must be a reopened gash from one of the wounds from Father. I never did heal quickly. Cain's gaze, however, lingers on my exposed skin, and from his expression of curiosity and pity, I realize that my scars must be visible. I draw my night clothes closer to me, slowly, carefully, a heavy silence between us as I realize that it is within my power to ruin everything for us. It's not a question of desire. No, within this is something far more insidious. This is Father's parting gift, the traces of what we did for so long, because, in the end, my body never belonged to me.

I am keenly, painfully aware of his eyes on me. I shift slightly, recalling his words that he would never act on such a desire should it exist, and wonder just how strong his resolve is. I draw blood from my lip in thought, and Cain watches it sting my lips, with the strange expression of intrigue and worry. Inspired by this show of interest, I calculate the distance between us, somehow removed from myself even as I wonder how his skin will feel next to mine. His tendons, quivering, stand out in the light, and I contemplate how they will feel. Much different, I suspect, from the time in the Stanford mansion, when I shoved him against the wall. For all its sinfullness, these thoughts come far too easily to me. The sin that will destroy the both of us, because I can only replicate what I have known.

With the details of my plan finalized, I tilt slightly to bridge the distance between us, to destroy any hope of breaking the family curse. It's not an action borne of malice, but merely a simple wish to relive what I did with Father. I hated the sensations and the uncomfortable feeling of lying next to him, knowing that it was a sin, but the attention and the knowledge that, for once, he was interested in me was terribly alluring—and always silenced my objections. And I realized, when I was alone with Cain and the birds, that I might have that again. Different person, same result. I want the pain of the ambiguity such a love leaves, the pain of his love, because I cannot bear to be unfaithful to Father. And so I'll use Cain to revive every memory of Father's love and the accompanying pain and hatred and misery, because I don't know what's left after Father. The pain, at least, is a constant.

As I move to begin our certain destruction, I catch the almost-fear in his eyes, and shame comes over me at my thoughts. For all my hatred of him, for all the times Father reminded me just who was the wanted son, for all the joy his existence leeched from mine, I cannot bring myself to seduce my own brother.

Even if it means that I must deal with this madness alone.

I drop my gaze in favor of pretending to follow the printed morning glory vines of the wallpaper. I suppose he will never know how close he came to becoming his father, but the relief in his posture suggests otherwise. This quiet decision between the both of us, to let the family curse go unacted upon, bonds us in a way that carnal knowledge never would. He moves to straighten my covers, carefully avoiding the lines of my body, and in this almost paternal act, I finally understand why he has returned, why he has been treating me as he has.

"You're not being fair to Riff," I begin, although not unkindly. "You think that if you can only focus enough on me that you can deny his death, but imitating him will not restore him to life. He's gone."

Cain's expression of pain confirms my hypothesis. "Uncle Neil had his room cleared out. There's _nothing_ of him left, save his journal and a shirt I stole. I cannot bear it. His existence, reduced to words and letters and memories." Unspoken in his words is the quiet terror that the memories have already begun to fade. "When—if!—I read it, there will be nothing left of him."

The newly replenished bouquet of bluebells and heather stands accusingly in the light, and I realize that the task that Riff left in his absence now falls to me—and me alone. I must take care of him, take care of the boy whose existence damned mine. Because in the end, we are the ones who must live on and make do with what has been left. Perhaps, in our small ways, we are all trying to amend the damage that Father has wrought. It reminds me of the story in which the twelfth fairy changes the curse to sleep rather than death. _Sleeping Beauty_ , I think.

"I'll read it then. That way you will know the contents, but you can still have the words unread."

Surprise at my offer registers with him. He searches my face, as if waiting for the reveal; finding none, he twists his slender fingers in contemplation. He gives me one final look, still anticipating a malicious remark, before leaving my room. I have almost settled back to sleep, the candle slowly flickering out, when he returns with the little leather journal I remember from Riff's bedside. He hands it to me with an unspoken plea, and briefly, I contemplate the joys of ruining his reluctant trust. Still, the thought is not as appealing as it used to be. I think I have seen a bit too much of him now, to relish ruining his life. While not as miserable as my existence, his is not the life of milk and honey that Father claimed.

What a pity.

Now that I cannot cling to the promise of making his life the hell mine was, what is there left? Living for myself seems such a hollow act, as I cannot deny the thousand, thousand strings that bind me, willingly and unwillingly, to humanity. At the same time, what has been done cannot be redacted. Mary will always harbor some fear—if not outright resentment—of me, for what I have done. I could explain everything to her, when she is older, but I doubt that will have an impact. Even with Cain, every so often, I catch the workings of fear in his eyes, and I can never decide if it pleases me or not. And I, I will always have the knowledge of what has been lost. If we are a family, then it is one bound by fear and terror.

And yet, there is something within me, the rebellious, treacherous part, that cannot relinquish this possibility of life without Father, with the family I should have known. This part that led me to make the choice that has shaped my life, and so many others so. If I had simply let Cassian die there, on the floor of Cassandra's mansion, none of this would have happened. I'd have died, either from my own hand or at Father's, and Cain would never have been able to say his goodbyes to Riff. How strange that my first act of compassion towards a human being could have such repercussions, such far reaching effects. Of course, it was partially fueled by his own sacrifice for me, that moment when time stopped and I realized that that was not at all what I wanted, that I had misjudged him.

Cain takes a seat across from me, wearily draping his arms on the back of the chair. In his fatigue, he resembles a marionette with its strings severed. I give the situation some thought, before moving over to allow him some space on the bed. "Here." While I do not relish the thought that he might read more into my offer than I had intended, I begrudgingly accept my fate as his brother—and all the duties that it entails. There is only he and I left, and perhaps it is foolish to continue a hatred that only divides us even as it binds us irreparably. I may never feel a deep brotherly affection towards him on account of his humanity, but perhaps a periodic show of tenderness will suffice. I am unused to the very notion; it makes me uncomfortable in its novelty.

He hesitates out of caution. "Are you certain that this is what you want?"

"Yes," I reply impatiently. "Preferably before dawn."

Carefully, he settles under the covers. Resting his head on the pillow, he surveys my face, with a little smirk. There is a surreal element to it all; my brother, with the eyes I desired, is so close to me, and yet, I do not fear that he will use me badly. We watch each other, in a quiet moment of acknowledgement, searching for answers in each other's faces. He might be the first person in my bed that I didn't seduce.

"Well, go on then," he says, haughtily, breaking the spell, "Before dawn."

I return his haughty smirk, before busying myself with the slim volume. "It's an account of household expenses, trouble with the staff, a—" An amusing anecdote about Cain catches my eye. "Did you really hide from Lord and Lady Grantham in the servants' quarters?"

Against his cool reserve, Cain reddens slightly. "Have you seen Lady Grantham? She's terribly formidable. Nothing escapes her eye."

"Keep that up, and there will be talk," I warn lightly, suddenly pleased that I do not have to endure the tedium of social calls and the like.

"No more than you'll be getting, I imagine. The bachelor brother of an earl? You'll be lucky if girls aren't throwing themselves off balconies to be seen by you." He smirks again at my grimace. "You should prepare yourself for the deluge of giggling and love notes that will inevitably ensue, once word gets out."

"I can think of no crueler a fate," I reply, dryly. "I'll have to let you experience all the bliss of wedded life for me. I can't say it holds much appeal."

At this, something akin to worry moves across his face, at the prospect of marriage that he, as the next Earl, is expected to undergo. "I can't imagine it either," he admits. "The nobility does not marry for love, but what if I or Uncle Neil choose wrongly?" Unspoken is the fear that she will see his scars and ask questions that do not have easy or pleasant answers. A fear that I can understand, being another recipient of Father's love.

"Well, as you are so terribly fond of telling me, the Hargreaves do not abide by societal rules. And Cassandra was a bachelor long into his thirties. The future is not as bleak as it seems." On that note of uncomfortable, yet not displeasing comfort, I resume my scan of Riff's journal. "Ah. This must be the last entry. It's dated a week ago." And just like that, the energy between us shifts from brotherly banter to a quiet anticipation.

"How does it end?" He shifts slightly from his position, and I sense apprehension in his tone. In that moment, I realize just how much power he has lent me.

I pause, immediately recognizing the verses. "It's Tennyson." From _In Memoriam, A.H.H._ How curious a decision to end the only record of his life with a eulogy.

" _Oh, yet we trust that somehow good_  
 _Will be the final end of ill,_  
 _To pangs of nature, sins of will,_  
 _Defects of doubt, and taints of blood;_

 _That nothing walks with aimless feet;_  
 _That not one life shall be destroy'd,_  
 _Or cast as rubbish to the void,_  
 _When God hath made the pile complete;_

 _That not a worm is cloven in vain;_  
 _That not a moth with vain desire_  
 _Is shrivell'd in a fruitless fire,_  
 _Or but subserves another's gain._

 _Behold, we know not anything;_  
 _I can but trust that good shall fall_  
 _At last—far off—at last, to all,_  
 _And every winter change to spring."_

As I move to close the journal, a hastily scrawled line, as if he were not in full possession of his body, catches my eye: _Lord, give the me strength to protect Lord Cain_. The desperation of it all lingers in my mind, as I realize that he spent his last days alive in a constant state of fear. Hideously aware that Riffael lived within him. Although I still cannot find empathy for him on account of his personhood, it moves me in a curious way. Perhaps, his tenderness for Cain, as falsified as it was, even leaves its mark on me, for as I shut the journal, I make no remark on my discovery. "That's how it ends," I lie, in the certain knowledge that the truth will only bring him needless guilt. "There's nothing after that."

He takes a few minutes to compose himself, and I pretend to not take notice, instead busying myself with my surveillance of the wallpaper again. The settling of his breath into a more reliable pattern announces that he has found his voice again, and he settles into my bed—his hand on the pillow, his hair so effortlessly fanned out, his chest marking the passage of time that his scars deny.

Together, we fall asleep, the two calamity children exiled from the Garden.

* * *

The afternoon proves relatively uneventful, and so I return to pass the time in the Hargreaves' considerable library; Neil takes no notice of me, absorbed as he is in his letters. Cain and Mary, meanwhile, are quietly engaged in a chess game. I have just decided on a Wilkie Collins serial that I have yet to read, when Mary's high-pitched voice rings out, in what I have come to recognize as the prelude to a seemingly innocent question that she knows will get someone in trouble—and distract from her current losing streak.

"Why," she begins, "is there a goat in the stables?"

Oh, that. Cain looks up, slightly confused, while Neil gives him a glance of tired frustration. "Do tell, Cain," he remarks. "I can only hope it is not to test your poisons on."

Cain shrugs in response. "It's not mine." He misses the way Mary quickly switches her pawn with his bishop.

"It was a gift from one of the tenants," I reluctantly reply, attempting to keep my tone nonchalant. "She wanted to thank me for saving her daughter, and one of her animals had borne twins, very late in the breeding season. It's quite rare for goats, of course." I stop at Neil's look of incredulity, Mary's shock, and Cain's smug amusement.

Neil begins to say something stern, but is overridden by Mary's exclamation of joy. "Oh, can I take it out? Can I have one too?"

"When you stop cheating at chess," I reply, slightly annoyed at her enthusiasm. "Besides, it's only here temporarily until one of the tenants can take it in."

Cain quickly corrects the chess board, while Mary pouts. "How else am I supposed to win against Big Brother?"

"It's not hopeless," I reply, moving over to the board. Crouching beside her, I give it a quick scan before deciding on a plan. "Move the pawn to the left this round."

Although she is uneasy with my presence, she obeys. Cain, in turn, moves his rook exactly where I anticipated him to.

"Take the rook with your knight." I quickly lose myself in the intricate strategies, as Cain settles for a more complex plan of attack. Soon, however, he has lost most of his army to the remaining stragglers of Mary's. Her unease turns into childish taunts and giggles, as her little makeshift army proves victorious.

"I'm not sure it's fair to let Jezabel help you," Cain says, in a tone of annoyance that does not reach his face.

Mary just laughs, with his king in her hands. "You're not a graceful loser, Big Brother."

"Cain, Mary," Neil begins, "do see if the post is already here. I'm waiting on a reply from your cousin Rose."

They leave, although Mary grows quiet and Cain casts a worried glance at us. Any joy I had gotten from my short-lived triumph over Cain is long gone now, replaced by a certain fear that the axe is approaching. When Neil and I are alone, he continues, carefully watching me and my reactions. "The coroner reported that Alexis died of ex-sanguination. It was a jagged incision to his neck, but clearly done by someone with an understanding of the human body." His slight pause implicates me as the murderer. "What I want to know, is why—the circumstances surrounding Alexis's death, your mysterious wound that few doctors can identify, everything." Another calculated pause as he gathers his thoughts. "I know Alexis, and he never kept anyone around who wasn't of use."

I cross my arms. "You would never believe me."

He gives me a hard look. "Was it about Augusta?"

I am shocked by how quickly he guesses correctly: was Father really that obvious in his miserable lust? Still, I am reluctant to tell the entire truth. "He wanted to resurrect her—in a new body."

"A new body," Neil repeats, unconvinced.

A slight annoyance rises in me, at his disbelief, and I have a terrible suspicion that I might be talking myself into the madhouse. "Yes," I insist. "It went just as well as one might think such an endeavor might go. Five years of work, and nothing, save a few soulless monstrosities. And Riff."

He pauses, clearly trying to make sense of it all. "Are you telling me, that one of the valets in my employ was one of Alexis's _creations_?"

Definitely the madhouse then. But I will be damned before I am denied the credit I am due. "He wasn't entirely Father's creation."

Neil looks as if he wants to say something, but he merely gives a little shake of his head in disbelief.

I settle into a scowl, decidedly upset that I am not believed. "It's true. I can draw you up the plans how it was done."

He steeples his fingers, as he leans towards me now. "You have a terribly fantastical story, I hope you are aware, and your position is precarious, to say the least."

My blood seems to still, as my breath quickens in fear. I know why he has isolated me from the rest of the family. He has decided against me, and not without good reason, I might add.

"You were screaming in your sleep again," he continues, in a way that does not leave me room for arguments. "I have two professional recommendations that you are unfit for regular life, and that you are best left in supervised care." His tone is one of quiet resignation, a judge reluctantly passing a sentence.

My mind works furiously. I am correct in my assumptions: he means to commit me, indefinitely, to a sanitarium, with the least amount of fuss. My luck has finally run out, if it ever existed at all. I wonder if the attendants are nearby, lying in wait to take me. The thought terrifies me and I quickly consider my options: I could easily slaughter Neil, and escape to anywhere but here, but for how long? I am recognizable, and without Father to guide me, and I am so weary of struggling against what has been done. There's no point to it all, no cosmic balance that redresses wrongs. Just a ceaseless parade of death and cruelty. I suppose I have made a decision then, if one can call it such. This merely feels like the inevitable, however. I have always known that I would die by my own hand.

"You must realize that it is in the best interest of the family."

Of course. The family must maintain appearances. My hand slips into my pocket, reflexively. One stroke, just a single, wide, deep one. Easy, so painfully easy. Certainly easier than what I have had to experience after Father's demise. At least, I will experience warmth again, no matter how fleeting

"Cain came to me with an impossible story about you." Neil regards me carefully. "He said that you formerly belonged to Alexis's organization, and that you had killed him out of self-defense." Another pause, this time to allow me to amend any part of his statements. When I say nothing, he continues. "I see that is true. Well, I cannot claim any regret over his death. If what you say about Riffael is correct, then what prevents Delilah from bringing Alexis back?"

"A willingness to," I hear myself reply, even though I do not fully register my words. "No one was particularly loyal to him; everyone, save me, wanted to usurp his position."

He takes in my words, with a slow nod. "Cain told me that consigning you to the asylum was the cruelest thing I could do to you, because you would never trust anyone again." He catches my gaze. " And he was under the impression that he had gained your trust, as frail as such a thing may be."

My hand relinquishes the scalpel in my pocket, as I am taken aback that Cain could think such a thing, and yet, I suspect that somehow it is all true. Somehow he swayed me with his foolhardiness. Perhaps I am not very good at judging people and their intentions fairly.

"I often wonder if what I did to Augusta was fair," he admits quietly. "She changed so in her madness." He holds his head in his hands, and I am unsure what to make of his confession. There is regret in his voice. He takes a moment to collect himself, before regarding me with a firm demeanor. "You cannot have the title, I'm afraid. The family had hoped Alexis might have taken your mother as his wife, but it was not meant to be."

Unspoken is the hope that Father might have abandoned his unholy lust for his sister. I wonder how horrified Neil would be to learn that Father's lust extended to his sons, but I say nothing. Instead, anger tightens my chest, anger that the family knew about Father and I, and still did not intervene.

"Lucretia was a beautiful woman. I can see her in you." He pauses, in his recollections. "I never thought we would meet, to be honest. The family kept records on you, of course, should you try to claim the title—up to your schooling as a physician in Cambridge. We lost track of you after that. But there were rumors. A doctor who could cure anything short of death. Who had been touched by the devil himself. Who, perhaps, was the devil made flesh." He watches me closely.

"I cannot claim to be the Lord of Flies himself," I remark dryly. "The only one who could fit such a description lies rotting."

If Neil is curious as to whom I allude to, he does not inquire further. "Would you hate Cain and I, I wondered, for what might have been yours?" He sighs, crumpling a set of papers. "But I can no more change the past, than anything else. I am your uncle, if you want me to be."

I do not understand what to make of his offer. My world consisted of Father alone, for so long, that I have forgotten that I must have other family. I shift slightly, uneasy and unsure.

There is something akin to sadness in his eyes at my hesitation. "I understand." His gaze falls to whatever he holds, as if unsure of his decision. "Do you swear, on your mother's grave, that you do not intend to bring harm to this family?"

I nod, knowing that I now surrender the only thoughts that have governed my existence all these long years. "I swear it." I wonder at how he knew Mother died, but I suppose it must be part of the records he spoke of.

Although he keeps a stony expression, relief lurks at the very edges of his mask. "That's all. You may go."

As I return to my book, he moves to toss something into the fireplace, and I know from the layout of the text and the two signatures that it is the paperwork to consign me to the asylum.

* * *

 _Cain_

Fortunately, my brother is familiar with both the Gladstone estate and the act of grave-robbing, trailing ahead of me. Periodically and abruptly changing his path as if he is led by a tempestuous spirit and not his own memory. Finally, when I am breathless from the pace he sets, I find him alone at the grave site, cold contempt on his face. As befitting one of such a well-regarded family, Lord Gladstone has been laid to rest magnificently, beneath a willow, which quivers in the night air. As if it knows what its master has done. A fresh marble headstone announces the significance of his life: a benefactor of the poor, friend of the helpless, 1862-1897. _There is therefore now no condemnation to them which are in Christ Jesus, who walk not after the flesh, but after the Spirit._ The innocence of the clean marble is almost convincing in its proclamation, but I remember the horrors that he inflicted with a grin. I examine the epigraph again, and it becomes a plea for forgiveness, rather than denial. I wonder if time will cleanse him of his sins, as those that remember grow speechless in death and the world only remembers what it has been told.

My brother, however, is unmoved by it all. After some thought, he produces a slate pencil and proceeds to vandalize the the headstone. Partially horrified at such a crude display and partially amused at his vindictiveness, I tilt my head to catch his response: _Then when lust hath conceived, it bringeth forth sin: and sin, when it is finished, bringeth forth death._ James 1:8. He finishes with a smirk, pocketing the tool, and I cannot wait to see the papers try to make sense of this. After admiring his handwork for a bit, he then takes up the shovel, and we begin the task of exhuming the body.

As our shovels tear the earth, I cannot help but marvel at the surreal nature of the scene: my brother and I, estranged as we are, united in stealing the body of a horrific murderer to lay him to rest in the family garden. And yet, nostalgia fills my heart at the remembrance of how Riff and I used to exhume bodies for similar reasons. Steel strikes wood, and we cease our actions. Beneath a lace covering is the pained visage of Lord Gladstone. The body has aged poorly, as things of the flesh are liable to do, and his limbs have stiffened. Neither Jezabel nor I speak: he looks as if he will rage or cry, and guilt over Cassian's death renders me wordless. I know now that he was the only one to touch my brother's closed, frightful, violent heart, and I wonder if he might have fared better if Cassian had survived. If we had avoided the terrible act that lingers in my mind with all its terrible implications.

Jezabel breaks our state of inaction, retrieving the body with movements born of practice rather than intention. From his opaque expression, I know that he is terribly far away from me, having sought refuge in the nothingness. This pains me, but I make no remark on it. Jezabel takes his legs, and I take his shoulders; his corpse forms a makeshift bridge between the two of us, as we return to the carriage. With the corpse inside, my brother takes the driver's seat, unable to bear being near it, and so I keep it company.

I watch the body the entire journey back, unable to avert my eyes from the signs of violence that even the morticians could not conceal. In a way, this is my way of paying my last respects to a man I never knew. "Are you there? Cassian?" I begin. "Mary said you had come back as a spirit. I cannot say if that is true or not, but she knows more than she lets on."

Only the jostling of the carriage answers me. It occurs to me that I probably ought not to have let my brother drive in his dissociated state, but it's too late now. I can only hope the horses remember the way back and that we don't end up in Manchester, or the like, to questions we don't want.

"He's a bit of a handful, isn't he?" I start again, if only to ease my own conscience. "I don't know how you managed, quite frankly." Words that I need to say spill out, faster than I can think. "But you can move on now. It's alright. Well, it's not quite alright, but it will be alright in the end. Winter to spring and all that. Consider this my payment to you. I'll watch over him, so you can go on—to Heaven or Hell, or whatever awaits us in the sleep of death." I watch the body closely, half hoping for a sign, as ludicrous and fanciful as that sounds. "You can go on now. Be free."

There is no sign that I am accomplishing anything besides talking with myself, but the burden on my heart has lightened, the guilt eased. Perhaps this mourning is more for Jezabel and I, than for Cassian. Mourning for what was lost, for what was done, and for what will be. Our final task, now, is to live with the damage, and despite it, live. To honor it and leave it. I still do not know what that will look like, but I know with a quiet certainty that it will happen.

Relief greets me, when I spot the familiar gates of the Hargreaves manor. When I exit the carriage, Jezabel is calming the horses, patting their sweaty muzzles and whispering something I cannot hear. It irks me that they listen to him and not I, but that cannot be helped. Perhaps they recognize one of their own in him—a volatile spirit given to shows of violence and compassion in equal measure.

The sky has just begun to lighten, when we complete our task in front of Cassian's final resting place. Shovel forgotten in his hand, Jezabel stares at the loosened soil, his expression indecipherable, and his silence unnerves me, this silence that always precedes an act of unpredictability. I wonder if he is about to throw himself into the open grave, and I try to dissuade him with a quip.

"You're not planing on leaping into his grave, are you?" I ask, wryly. "Because that would be a little too melodramatic, even for you."

He says nothing in response, instead scanning the nestling flocks in the birches, as if hoping to see Cassian among their number.

"He's gone," I try, more gently than I feel; many hours have passed since we departed on our endeavor, and my blankets do tempt me so.

With a final, lingering glance towards the flocks, awaiting the morning light, he begins to cover up the corpse. This task passes too quickly; we conceal the past even as we set it to right. Soon, there is nothing to mark Cassian's passing, save the fresh earth and our memories. Memories that will inevitably fade with time—if not the passing of our own memories, then the anonymity that time gifts us all. It's tragic and liberating all at once, this state of being and the painful awareness it entails.

As we lead the horses back to the stables, I almost miss his quiet, grudging remark: "Thank you." And despite the smell of death on my hands and the ringing of the shovel in my ears, I smile to myself.

* * *

Back at the manor, I give him time alone, to grieve and to come to peace with what we have done. I, meanwhile, head to my bedroom to pretend to have been sleeping the night, although I do not pretend for long, for sleep claims me shortly after I have rid myself of my dirtied clothes. I lose myself in a dream of summer, and when I awake, for a moment, the distinct smell of lavender soap hangs in the air. My heart leaps at this, as a flurry of dangerous emotions springs anew.

"Riff? Have you returned to me?"

Again, there is silence. But on the windowsill, where he would usher in the day, is a single sprig of lavender. I know this cannot be Mary's doing, for no lavender grows in the gardens here. I wonder and wonder at this little mystery until I am reduced to tears of joy in the knowledge that Riff did not forget me. That somehow he remains. I clutch it, as if it is a talisman, speechless in my relief. For all his cruelty, this ill-fated decision of Father's, to allow me Riff, has brought me unfathomable joy. Careful to keep the flower together, I tuck it into his diary, although I avoid reading the pages that will preserve it. As I leave the room, I almost miss the key to my room, neatly returned on my bedside table. I cannot keep from smiling, knowing that Father has finally lost.

I find my brother alone in the library, absentmindedly looking through a volume of Baudelaire's poetry. Only the dark circles around his eyes betray what we have been up to, and his ordinarily pale face is blotchy, as if he has spent a significant time in tears. The wandering maids give us questioning glances at our early rising, but I ignore them.

"Baudelaire?" I begin, if only to break the silence and establish some form of normalcy between us. "I like the one about the clock. The one that rings against the wear of time."

He gives me a strange look, as if he knows that I am not here to discuss poetry. "Yes, I suppose."

"I hear things have been slow in the village, and I thought you might want some excitement in your life." As he stares at me, slightly bemused, I unfold a torn section from today's newspaper, intercepted before Uncle Neil could peruse it. "There's a string of murders in Oxford—six girls, all found with a single, white chess piece. The press is dubbing them the 'White Queen' murders." I hand him the scrap. "No traces of blunt trauma or poison."

"You're insufferable," he replies, but he proceeds to scan the article.

"The windows were tight, their doors locked," I continue, "but they were found dead in the morning."

"They died of fright," he says dismissively, as he returns the clipping. "Some disposition to hysteria."

I shake my head. "They were found smiling."

This catches his attention, and he sets the thin volume down on a shelf. "Smiling," he repeats, before falling into contemplation. "Did the coroners check for opium? Gas inhalation?"

I grin, knowing that I have him now. "All six had visited the same millinery shop in London. I've arranged an interview with the owner, a Mrs. Dodgson. Widowed in the war."

He sighs. "It's always the widows, isn't it?"

"Time to find out." I cannot keep myself from smiling.

* * *

 **Notes:**

So, we are now just before the ending. My gratitude to you, dearest readers, for all your encouragement and kind words. I don't think I would have made it this far without you.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes** :

This is the very end. Thank you for reading this far, dearest readers.

* * *

Night has begun to claim the village. I hurry, praying that I am not too late, as I have always been. Away and away the sky retreats to the horizon, while I travel the unfamiliar road. Alone. And yet, I do not falter from my task, my final task. A strange longing comes over me at the prospect of finally being able to be of use to him. An old, ill-tempered robin grumbles at me, as if asking my purpose in his country; I ignore him, yet he follows me along the road, urging me on. And so, I run against the night.

At last!

Although his back is towards me, I would recognize that moonlight hair anywhere. With the keen eye of a parent, I notice that it has been shortened considerably. I follow him, competing for space with several cats, as he tends to his menagerie for the night. He gently chides a goat when it snatches the hay out of his hands, patting its head as it greedily chews. A quick glance reveals the old robin to be among the birds that clamor for their nightly due, and the scene leaves me just as breathless as the first time I saw him with the sparrows a lifetime ago. They swoop and gossip, until he begins to parcel out their meal: before him, they grow solemn and remember their manners, as if they are attending the Last Supper with him. Then having obtained their fill, they nestle in the birches, to talk away the twilight.

(A love, then, that neither the Cardmaster nor Cassandra could taint. Some things can never be conquered.) Along the whispering fields, bleached in their ripeness, the fog settles in, but I no longer fear it. It is an old friend now.

The cats desert me at the sight of something bloody, which he doles out with a grimace. With a sigh, he surveys the area, and his gaze falls to me. He smiles at me, that tenderness I never received from him before. It irks me that I am cursed eternally to be shorter than him, but my heart is too glad to dwell on that quirk of fate.

"What a handsome puppy you are. Are you lost?" He crouches to stroke my head gently. "Well, you'd best be off before your family starts to miss you."

I place my paw on his hand, unwilling to leave him—not this time. Laughing, he moves to displace it, when he notices the diagonal of white on my otherwise black paw. A strange look comes into his eye—half longing, half apprehension. He cradles my paw in his hands, as if he cannot decide on what he has realized, before searching my face, as he did a lifetime ago. Again, a wounded realization, with that terrible, unasked question: Why? That disarming, open look of childlike honesty.

I press against him. Because I told you, kid, that I loved you.

Because in the darkness, I prayed to a God I no longer believed in to be with him again, no matter the pain. I prayed to take a form that he could truly love, so that I could be with him again. Someone had to return for him.

I would live and die as often as the clock chimes, if only I could be by his side. And I knew that, when I died the first time, that I would cast my life aside just as easily if only I could protect him again. (But did I? Or did the sight of my corpse follow him around like a little dog?)

I'm ashamed to admit that guilt drove me to my slaughter; I never thought that my ruse would be uncovered. Instead, I thought only of the life I had planned for us, what I now recognize as a fool's fantasy: a life in the countryside, where we could be free from the blood and terror that London had lent us. Surely, time and love could undo the Carsmaster's cruelty, I reasoned. And who better to show him, than the one who cared for him more than his own family? But I realized, as I looked upon his face, too lined from stress and worry for someone so young, that I might have underestimated the damage, in all my desperate optimism. This weight I could not carry alone.

That's not the whole reason, of course. I was born hungry. The fifth child to a woman in a land not her own. Hungry for adventure, hungry for a meal more substantial than thin cabbage and potatoes, hungry for the love and attention I never received. I was but a shadow to my mother, an afterthought to her own misery. The gnawing in my gut never subsided, not even when I was finally fed properly in the circus, and by the time I left, only a hard, cruel imp remained; I used to imagine that I had been refined there, stripped of my boyish delusions and cares, but there is no strength in hardness, only loss. On the streets, my eternal youth marked me as subhuman, defective—a curiosity to know, perhaps, but never to love. Love was never meant for my type.

Being a monstrosity that never aged, I had few options after leaving the circus—none of them in the slightest savory. Delilah, as it turned out, was the best of my options—and my undoing. I may never forgive the Cardmaster for casting his child to the wolves, the wolves with aristocratic smiles and silken hands. The knowledge that there still remained a bit of goodness within the kid led me to fall between Cassandra's blade and him. And perhaps even more so, I am truly honest with myself, the sudden realization that even with all I had done, there remained a chance at redemption for me. To make my empty, hateful life worthwhile. To ensure that one person, at least, would mark my passing.

(And underneath that selfishness was a desire to save him before he became completely and irrevocably hard and cruel and vicious like me. And therefore, to save myself by proving that my tin heart was not the entirety of my existence. I suppose the folly of recreating the past consumes us all.)

And then, as if I found myself inhabiting a penny dreadful, I was reborn in the body of the man who had wanted to leave yet another indelible mark on the kid who had never had a say in anything that befell him. Sometimes, I wished that I could just leave London and be rid of the whole business, but I always remembered his look of shock that anyone would give a damn about him. It haunted me and urged me on, even when I was at my most despairing. I could not bring myself to abandon the only person I had truly cared for, and in doing so, ensure his certain destruction: either at his own hand or the Cardmaster's.

And yet, in those subsequent months of hiding and plotting and dreaming, my heart turned traitor on me, as it gradually revealed the softness it had hidden from me for all these years. It is strange how my worry and what I can now name as love for him gave me back my humanity, in a way that having an adult body never had. I, for all my stunted appearance, was human—for all the anguish and joy that entails. I used to imagine my heart as a tin of pebbles, but I was wrong.

I will love him until the soil calls out to me again, and I take a new form.

Until the light fades, and the monuments finally surrender to age their futile attempts at preservation.

Until time itself stops, and memory ceases, and humanity is a forgotten footnote to whatever may come.

This is the price I exact from whatever lent me breath, and my Sisyphulean task, and my joy.

The kid throws his arms around me, his sobbing muffled by my fur. I wait patiently, resting my head against his trembling shoulders, for we have nothing left but time. Several minutes pass, until his breathing calms. As he breaks the embrace, he gives me an incredulous look, before drying his face with his cuff. In the fading light, I notice some of his tears still on his hands.

"We're going to be late, you and I, I fear. Cain will expect me soon, and if I do not, he will show here." Far from a look of apprehension, instead he softens at the mention of his brother.

(Maybe he didn't need me to set him free. Maybe it is not in the power of one person alone, to gift freedom and redemption.)

"I have so much to tell you," he continues, the lines still on his face, but they are no longer as noticeable. "Now that you finally returned." He shakes his head a little at the impossibility of it all, and fights back the tears again. He moves to lock the building, before turning to me—and I finally rejoin him.

Together, we set down the path back home.

* * *

 **Notes** :

This was the scene that inspired this story. See, I do keep my promises to you.

This story was inspired by serpentinerose's "On the Coldest Winter Night." It's an unfinished masterpiece (as of now), and I decided to write my response to it, which became "Beyond the Garden." The title is taken from Alexis's dying monologue in canon about how Cain was exiled from the Garden of Eden. I changed this exile to a deliberate decision to leave the poisonous world Alexis creates, because Alexis has always underestimated his sons. I wanted to write a more realistic depiction of trauma that emphasized the role of choice—particularly painful choices—yet also acknowledged the deep wounds trauma leaves. The past never goes away, but things are set to right in the end.

My undying gratitude to my readers and reviewers. I almost quit this story more times that I can count for any number of reasons, but largely my own insecurities. This is the first serial I wrote, and I secretly doubted that I could handle it. I'm grateful for all the kind words it has received. Truly. Every time I was prepared to abandon it, somehow I received the sweetest of encouragement. So this is my place to thank all my amazing, wonderful, inspiring readers and reviewers.

*DAIrinchan, who faithfully wrote the most timely, encouraging reviews, and who reviewed every chapter. I am so humbled at the dedication.

*hikachu, who wrote to me, when I was deeply discouraged with how ugly and violent the fic was becoming and was fully convinced that no one wanted to read such fic.

*Waltzing-marionettes, who sent me the sweetest, kindest PM that made me blush for a day.

*BKtem, whose enthusiasm never faltered.

*Syri, whose encouraging reviews finally pushed me to finish this novella and whose amazing fan fictions and art inspired this one. Virginia Wolf once said that books continue each other, and I like to think the same is true of fanfic. While this is obviously an alternative continuation of the manga, it is in its own way, a tribute to all the amazing fan fictions I have read and loved.

*And to you, my dear, shy readers.

My eternal thanks and gratitude to all of you. I never thought anyone would want to read this. Thank you for sticking with me to the very end of this story.


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